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[wimbledonconfidentaldentist]

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[gurugirl]

Crush | bfd!harry

Best friend’s dad!harry x reader | older!harry x reader

Summary: When your feelings for Mr. Styles morph from just finding him attractive to a full on crush you feel a little guilty. But then when he shows an interest back in you at Fae's 22nd birthday party you two become close and eventually ebb on inappropriate, but you can't seem to stop.

A/N: This is a flashback from Y/n's point of view starting with when she began crushing on Harry, to Fae's birthday, and beyond. A little more insight into why they were so comfortable with one another when they began their affair.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warning: 18+ only, smut (masterbation), a touch of angst, emotional almost cheating, age gap

bfd!harry masterlist

You had always found Harry attractive. The first time you went with Fae to her house and met her mom and dad you could recognize that your friend’s dad was a good-looking man.

But it wasn’t until the day you and Fae decided to go to the gym with Harry that you suddenly began to crush on him The gym had a big pool and sauna, and hot guys, according to Fae so you figured you’d spend a Saturday afternoon there.

You and Fae swam in the pool and then sat in the steam room until you were bored and decided to change back into your clothes and go look for Harry.

And when you found him… You stopped in your tracks. You hadn’t expected Mr. Styles to look like that.

He was boxing. Wearing a white t-shirt and athletic shorts. His hair was pulled out of his face with a clip that must have belonged to Fae or Mrs. Styles. He had gloves on and he was dancing around the other guy in the gym’s ring.

Of course, they were just sparring, there wasn’t any violent punching happening, but the way Harry handled himself had you dropping your mouth open in awe.

Fae turned back to look at you, “Are you okay?”

You couldn’t find your voice. You were in shock. Nodding your head you kept your eyes on Harry. His dark tattoos stood out with the sweat on his skin. His shoulders were broad under his sweaty white shirt and his moves were quick. Harry was clearly well-built. In much better shape than the guy he was sparring with who appeared to be closer to your age.

“Hey, Dad!” Fae waved at Harry as you stood back to take it all in.

Harry put his hands up in a signal to his partner to pause as he pulled his gloves off and spit the mouthguard out. You noticed that he glanced toward you and then began to move his mouth to answer Fae. You could barely hear. Your ears were ringing.

And then it was like you were suddenly being drawn in by tractor beams and you were unable to stop it as you moved yourself forward to where he stood in the slightly elevated, padded gym ring. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him and you couldn’t look away even when he made eye contact with you again and you saw the edge of his lip quirked up in a grin before he licked his lips.

And that stuck with you. That little smirk. The sweat on his neck. The look he’d given you. Was he perhaps also attracted to you somehow? Even if he was… well nothing would ever come of it.

On Fae’s 22nd birthday, you selected your outfit based on what you thought Harry might like. You pushed down your guilt about the way you’d been crushing on him and how you were hoping to at least catch his eye. You still never imagined that there’d ever be anything to worry about. It was just an innocent crush, right?

And you were so hot and turned on just imagining seeing Mr. Styles at your best friend’s birthday party, which was ridiculous, that you had to pull your panties off and find a new pair. But first, you needed to calm yourself and the best way to do that was to take your dildo out and use it on yourself.

At the time you still lived with your parents as you were in your last year of college and without a proper job. So, you locked your door and pulled up a photo of the only man you’d been masturbating to since the gym incident. The photo was of him with Fae. He was holding up a peace sign and he had the most adorable smile, complete with dimples, curly hair, and bright eyes. The nice thing about this picture was that he was staring directly into the camera as if he was watching you and that’s exactly what you wanted. His eyes on yours as you came imagining the dildo you were slipping inside of yourself was his cock.

And you knew Mr. Styles was hung. Knew he had a big dick. You hadn’t seen it, of course, but you could just tell. The natural bulge he sported, the occasional swing of his cock under athletic shorts when it appeared he wasn’t wearing underwear, and just his natural confidence told you he was well endowed.

You thrusted the thick silicone toy in and out as you rubbed your clit and peered at the photo of Harry, looking into his eyes. You’d scrolled in so the photo only had him in it. You could never do what you were at that moment if you could see Fae to his right.

You panted and then bit your lip to keep your noises down. The only thing to be heard in your bedroom was the slick press of the toy into your pussy.

And because you wanted to get to the Styles’ house early you did all the little things you knew would have you coming in under five minutes. The slip of your fingers on your clit and quick long thrusts of the toy into yourself with your eyes planted on Harry’s photo did the trick.

You peeped out a moan and threw your head back into your feather pillow as you closed your legs around the dildo and shut your eyes. It was Harry’s cock you were coming on. His deep, masculine voice coaxed you through, telling you that you were such a good girl for him.

After cleaning up and putting on a fresh pair of panties you smiled to yourself. You felt naughty. You were a bad girl to be imagining the things you were about Mr. Styles. But you couldn’t help it. Everything about him was sex and allure. His confidence and his charm drew everyone in. But the most attractive thing about him was how genuinely kind he was. He was sweet to his core.

You arrived about thirty minutes before you knew anyone else would begin to. You didn’t know why you wanted to get there early but when you realized Mrs. Styles’ car wasn’t in their driveway you felt a gush of excitement at the idea you’d be alone with him. Alone with Mr. Styles.

You found your way into the house, knowing you were always given permission to just enter when they were expecting you.

And there he was. In their lovely backyard setting up. He looked handsome in navy slacks with a white button-up shirt.

“Mr. Styles!”

He jolted and turned quickly to see you. You had scared him apparently. But then you watched in satisfaction as he dragged his eyes down your frame to take in your outfit. It was a well-fitted soft yellow dress with white polka dots. Your tits looked fantastic in it and the middle hugged your waist delicately.

“Hi, Y/n. How are you dear?” He pulled you into his arms and gave you a hug that lingered for a moment longer than necessary. He smelled amazing and you hoped he’d gotten a whiff of you too. You’d put on your nicest perfume and lotion.

When you both had backed away from the hug you felt yourself grow warm when his eyes dropped to your lips and then took in your neck and your face before he looked back up at your eyes. He looked stunned. Was it because you’d startled him when you arrived? Or… was there something behind this look… something behind the reaction he was giving to your presence?

After finding out it was just the two of you your mind delved into darkness quickly as you imagined him taking you right then on the table he stood next to. He could just bend you forward and slip your thong to the side and stuff himself inside of you.

“Well, I can go back inside. Don’t want to bother you or–“

But suddenly Harry wrapped his hand around your wrist and spoke over you, “It’s okay, Y/n. You’re never a bother.”

You hadn’t expected him to reach out for you as you looked down at his hand on your wrist and then looked back into his eyes. There was something there. In the way he was looking at you, in the way he was standing so close. As if he were seeing you in the same way you saw him.

And through the rest of the party you couldn’t keep your eyes off him but nearly every time you looked his way he was already watching you. It was a clear message. Maybe it would never be acted on, but the sentiment was clear. He found you attractive now. And the longing gazes from across the yard or at the table had your skin prickling and panties wetting involuntarily.

Before you left for the night you found Harry when no one was around. You’d done it on purpose. Wanted to give him a nice hug, something subtle but something to take with you and think about when you fingered yourself that night.

He stood up from his crouched position over the box he was stuffing with string lights and kept his dark eyes on yours. It almost looked like his pupils were blown out. But perhaps it was just the lighting.

You reached out for his hand, brushing your fingertips against his as you stepped in close to hug him, “This was fun, Mr. Styles.”

You slid your arms over his shoulders so he wrapped his around your low back and held you close, bodies molded together tight. You had your breasts pressed into his chest and then he turned his face in toward you as he spoke quietly, his breath falling over your ear and your neck, “I’m glad you were here tonight.”

You both stood like that for longer than was appropriate but it felt good. It felt like a little secret. Just for the both of you.

And things didn’t end there. You often visited Fae’s and went at times when you knew she might not be home. You and Harry would sit in his office and chat for hours sometimes. Usually, nothing suggestive happened but it always ended with a sensual hug. And each hug became more inappropriate until you two were pressed together at the hip before parting. You loved the brush of his dick against your thigh, even if he wasn’t hard, just the gesture of it was erotic. You could feel him and you were sure he was aware of it.

You always left with a shy smile and Harry’s eyes were dark and he looked like he could devour you. But that’s exactly what you wanted.

But still, you never imagined things would escalate.

Harry had given you his number eventually. For emergencies or if you ever needed to talk. And once in a while, you’d text him out of the blue. A link to an article that made you think of him, a funny meme to brighten his day. Eventually, the texts were more personal in nature. A good morning text. A how was your day text. A I’m sitting in traffic and need to be entertained text. And then he began to text you first some days. The first time he texted you first was a day you decided not to text him at all. Just to see if you could do it. To see if you could go one day without contact. Because it was silly, the game you two were playing and you knew it.

Haven’t heard from you today. Just checking in.

That one had you simply squealing and acting like you’d just been asked out on a date.

And when you started dating Randy you noticed that Harry liked to change the subject any time you brought him up.

“What did you do this weekend?” He asked you as you sat across from him in the cushy chair in his study.

“I went out with Randy again. He stayed the night on Satur–“

“That’s great. How’s school?”

He’d changed the subject so fast you got whiplash. And that seemed to be the way it went every time you brought up your boyfriend.

But he never stopped texting you and you never stopped texting him. All throughout your relationship with Randy. The heated hugs with faces turned inward as if you both wanted to part with a kiss, hips pressed together, whispers of “be good this week”  that turned into “be a good girl this week” into your ear.

And then one day Randy hurt your feelings. He had already graduated from college and had a full-time job so he typically paid for most of your outings. You tried to chip in when you could but you were a full-time student working part-time at a fabric shop downtown and barely made anything to have any fun with.

So he’d make comments from time to time about the fact that he was the one paying so he got to do what he wanted when he wanted.

And normally you didn’t care. But the time he hurt your feelings was while you and a few friends were at his house watching a football game. His team was losing and you’d never seen Randy act like such a toddler before. Your last straw was when he slammed his fist into his coffee table, shattering a pint glass you had been drinking from, and then throwing his remote control into the wall, smashing it into tiny pieces.

“Calm down! It’s just a game,” you hurriedly spoke as you scrambled to get paper towel and a broom to clean up the mess he’d made.

He followed behind you as you grabbed the broom and he stopped you by grasping your shoulders, “Do not talk to me like that in my own place. I pay the rent here. I pay for everything else too. Until you start chipping in, you do not get to tell me to calm down.”

Your eyes filled with tears. Not because you were sad, but because you were pissed. You dropped the broom and flipped him off before grabbing your purse and getting out of there. You drove directly to Harry’s house. Mrs. Styles answered the door and she made you a cup of coffee. You told her that you’d just had an argument with your boyfriend and just needed to get away so the first place you thought of was the Styles’ house. Harry was on a call when you arrived and Fae wasn’t home once again.

“Look. Stay as long as you’d like, Y/n. I’m gonna go and get a few things at the market and I’ll be back in like thirty minutes. Just… don’t worry about that guy. Okay? You are free to watch TV or hang out in Fae’s room if you want. Our home is your home.”

You plopped on the couch and looked at your cell phone to see a missed call and a few missed texts from Randy. You were so angry with the way he spoke to you that you didn’t even bother to read what he had to say.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” Harry’s kind smile covered his face as he walked out of his study toward you and sat down next to you on the couch.

You huffed and leaned back into the couch, “Just needed a place to go. It’s Randy. He was rude to me. And I don’t know if I can forgive him for it. Maybe he was just talking in the heat of the moment but… it just felt really mean and I have never had a guy speak to me like that before.”

Harry took your hand and the big smile on his face had fallen into a serious expression, “What did he say to you?”

You described to Harry what happened, as well as the past occurrences with him mentioning how he paid for things and how that was easy to overlook but this time it felt like a real dig at you. An insult.

“Fuck him. You need to break up with him. I’d never speak to anyone like that. He was pulling a power move on you which is manipulative. You did nothing wrong.”

Harry’s thumb slid against your knuckles and you’d all but forgotten about how mad you were at your boyfriend at his soft gesture.

“Yeah. I know. I just couldn’t believe him. I think I’ll break up with him Friday morning cause I have the day free and he works in the afternoon.”

You looked up at Harry and into his eyes. You wished you could read his thoughts but figured that might be dangerous based on the way he was looking at you at that moment. It felt dreamy and lusty and with his hand grasping yours and his thumb brushing over your skin it made you dizzy.

“Good. You don’t deserve that, Y/n. Feel like I should go over to his apartment and beat his ass for speaking to you like that,” he lifted his free hand up to your face and thumbed over your cheek.

Your lips parted at his gesture and your breath caught. You both knew you were playing with fire. You were sat too close and Harry was touching you in a way a lover would. Yes, you were still fully clothed and perhaps to the naked eye this could be shrugged off as innocent but there was nothing innocent between you two in that moment.

“Promise me you’ll break up with him?”

You nodded and leaned your cheek into his hand further, “I promise.”

“Good girl, Y/n. I need you to let me know after you do it. Okay? Because I need to make sure you’re okay. His outburst today doesn’t give me confidence that he’ll take the news well.”

You nodded again and spoke softly, “Yes, sir.”

You watched him flutter his eyes closed as his chest rose with a deep breath before he pulled you into his arms for a hug. A seated hug. It was different than all the other hugs because he had to slot his knee between yours, your legs being pushed apart and even though your hips weren’t pressed together your legs were slotted between his and his face brushed against yours, his lips at your ear, “I’ll call you if I don’t hear from you. Because I need to know you’re okay after. Understood?”

You nodded and felt his face move, against yours, his nose pressed into your cheek. It was one of those moments when the air felt choked from your lungs as you moved your face in toward his and paused. Only an inch further and you’d have his lips on yours. Only an inch further and you could feel what you’ve longed to feel for nearly two years. Only an inch further and there would be no turning back.

He pressed his warm pink lips into your cheek, so near to your mouth and you felt him exhale from his nose as he gripped your ribs tighter. Your hand moved down until you’d settled it on his pants-clad thigh and opened your mouth to ready yourself for what you thought might come next as he brushed his nose inward, inward, inward.

But you were both stopped short and jumping apart the moment a car door closed. Harry stood up quickly and plucked at the front of his pants as he looked at you with wide eyes like he was suddenly broken from some magic spell he was under.

Mrs. Styles came in with two bags full of things she’d gotten at the market, “Har, will you help me put this away?”

Harry kept his eyes on you as he responded, “Yeah. Of course. Just sit it on the counter. I’ll be right in. Need to use the restroom first.”

And you figured you knew what he was doing behind those doors. Either he was cooling off or he was fucking his fist to calm himself because you did not miss the way his usual bulge was quite a lot thicker and more prominent in his pants as he walked toward the bathroom.

You had done that to him. You’d given him an erection and he nearly kissed you after telling you to break up with your loser boyfriend. And you couldn’t deny that it all had you riled up. Your heart was pounding as you stood wobbly to your feet and found Mrs. Styles in the kitchen.

“Uh… I’m gonna go home now. Thank you so much for letting me hang out here a bit and vent to you.”

She smiled at you and gave you a gentle hug, “Of course, Y/n. Anytime you need. I’m sorry Fae wasn’t here but we’ll always be here for you too you know.”

You nodded, “Yeah. Thank you. And… tell Mr. Styles I said goodbye too.”

If there was any doubt in your mind about breaking up with Randy before you spoke to Harry, well there certainly wasn’t any after. You sat in your car and touched the spot on your face where he had his lips pressed.

You had never intended for anything to go that far. And still, you couldn’t imagine the kind of mess that was just to come.   

    

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[cantgetworsethanthistbh]

stancest prompt :3 teen! stans getting handsy in the locker room after a boxing match

another one im combining together and um anon sorry this took soooo long, im gomma be honest this was my most excited to write but it turned out sm more experimental than i expected. not sure about the end result but i suppose i could always write a second version because i just had too many ideas for this one in particular lmaooo I went with Ford having some secret sadism he is very badly repressing so thats where the freaky style comes in

And uh, another ford pov. ive gotta write one in stans eventually lmao

~~

Ford never liked boxing lessons.

He never liked that the air was rich with sweat and dust barely ventilated through the hotbox of a gym, leaving every kid melting into pools of themselves. He never liked the sounds of rubber gloves meeting skin in vicious smacks. He never liked how their god awful, shitty coach would pit his favorites against the littlest guys of the rack, watching the big kids pummel new and inexperienced in some sick delusion that he was honing their skills but really, he was nothing more than a bully letting other bullies have a sick little power trip. Ford has been on the opposite side of those fists, in and out of the ring. He knows how this works, he knows how it plays out.

If there was one thing to like about boxing lessons, it was how getting called a "freak" im the middle of a match had gotten him a couple unsavory wins (but wins nonetheless) himself through sheer rage. Ford hadn't cared about playing fair then— he doesn't have anything to prove. Not to them.

Stan would usually agree, but this is where another one of their most fundamental differences rises: Stan loves boxing.

Ford doesn't know why, nor can he truly begin to fathom how. Back when they were children, Stan had a bigger target on his back for their instructors to send their seasoned trainees after. He was tempermental, but he didn't have Ford's wit and only ever swung his fists around desperately. He got provoked into losing his focus so easily, one second he's standing, the other he's being pinned on the mat. He was always the stronger twin between them, sure, but what's good with being a strong kid in a room full of stronger kids? Most of all: he was an emotional wreck after losing, which happened really often.

Stan fell hard and cried harder. And he was beaten down for it even more in the ring, and even outside of it. Moses knows their father didn't take Stan 'embarrassing' the family very well.

And Ford knows the way he used to have swab cotton and disinfectant onto his brother's swelling face.

Ford never liked that. Ford hated that.

But Stan didn't. Stan always came back, barely healed and raring for more

And now—

"And the winner— Stanley Pines!"

The name call catches Ford off guard, dragging him back into reality as the crowd around them whoops excitedly. Up in the ring, Stan is pumping his fists in a little victory lap while his opponent slinked off to the opposite corner. Ford scans, his attention on Stan's body, seeing the usual bruises that would litter his sweaty chest and broad shoulders, some landing even on his jaw. Stan rips his gloves off and spits out his mouthguard and that's when Ford sees it.

There's a cut on his top lip, small but red and angry, bleeding into his mouth. Stan's eyes meet Ford's and he grins, not bothered by the injury as soon as he saw his brother, teeth stained red and wet with blood and spit.

For whatever unholy reason, Ford's stomach stirs at the sight of it, an aching need popping but not that Ford knows what that need actually is. The need to take care of Stan again? The need to strangle Stan because even though he clearly doesn't need these classes anymore, he still keeps going? The need to take Stan by the shoulders and—

Then Stan winks at Ford. And that makes Ford's body stiffen, skin burning, making the quiet twist in his gut deepen further.

"And you're going to drop out after this, right?"

They're in the locker room, lucky to have it all to themselves after everyone else has packed up and left after the final fight. Something had come up in shop and their parents hadn't been able to watch Stan's match, but Stan was excited to retell his great victory or whatever it is. That's not Ford's priority, and hell it shouldn't even be Stan's.

"Wha?" Stan asks incredously, to which Stanford immediately muffles with a damp towel pressing against his lip. The bleeding has slowed down enough for Ford to finally focus on after checking the other bruises and inspecting the rest of Stan's body for any more injuries before he showers. There wasn't any more, thank God, but Ford hates having to check in the first place. His brother's casual confusion ate at his nerves now too, as if Ford said something ridiculous, or he just didn't hear Ford right.

Well, Ford has no issue repeating.

"You're going to stop taking boxing classes, right?" Ford say again. Stan's brow furrowed in confusion, which Ford ignores, as he carefully dabs at his lip. "I mean, at this point it's just pointless to keep it up when you've been going for years."

"Pff, as if. I ain't stopping now," Stan replies, and Ford frowns. "Why would I?"

"Stan... you're bleeding. You're hurt."

Stan chuckles. "Yeah? I always am after a match. Earth to Super Genius Poindexter: the point is to hit each other."

"You shouldn't be bleeding this much," Ford says, gesturing to his brother's face, the cut open lip.

"Aw, Sixer, you've seen worse on my face than that, and look at it. Still prettier than yours."

"Ha, ha. Very funny." Ford huffs, annoyed that Stan clearly isn't taking this seriously. Of course Ford has seen worse, has taken care of Stan when it was worse, but it doesn't mean he likes it. It doesn't mean he likes watching Stan get pummeled even if he wins. Doesn't mean he likes that Stan is sore and winded out after a match. Doesn't mean he likes seeing his brother sweaty and exhausted and turning to Ford's hands for care and comfort, malleable into whatever Ford could want.

He doesn't like that. At all.

Stan chuckles. "I got a match next Thursday, I can't stop now!"

Ford pouts, not understanding how that could possibly more important to Stan than his own brother's request. As if he's saying he doesn't believe that stopping his lessons, stopping this, is what Ford would actually want. Which is—

"Besides," Stan interrupts his train of thought, leaning into Ford slightly, palm on the bench they occupied. "You know I ain't mind the pain, whatever it is you're freaking out about. I'm used to it."

"Stan—"

"In fact," Stan continues, using that voice he pulls to mock Ford's use of that very phrase. He grins that bloody, toothed grin again. "I kinda like it."

The twist in Ford's gut tightens once more, and all he can think is fine. Fine.

Taking his free hand to the back of Stan's neck, he crushes his mouth against Stan's, ignoring his twin's pained gasp when the split lip comes in hard contact with Ford's. He doesn't push or pull away, and doesn't protest when Ford doesn't let up, kissing him and sucking on his lips like a man on a mission. The rich, rusty tang of blood lands on his tongue, filling up his mouth and Ford moans against Stan.

Stan barely exhales out of amusement. "I knew you were into freaky stuff like that."

"Shut up."

Smashing their mouths again, Ford drops the towel in his hand to run hands through the sweat drenched hair. Practically crawling onto Stan's lap, his warm, meaty thighs under his ass. God. Ford's been waiting for this. If anything was worth sitting through another one of those matches it was seeing his brother, dripping with sweat and bulging with muscles.

And having him all alone in his hands for 'immediate care'.

And feeling his hips grind against Stan's own underneath him  or having Stan's hand around his leaking cock while they finish each other in the confines of the locker room like they have so many times before.

Cupping Stanley's face and craning his neck up, pulling him into a deeper kiss while Stan's hands go under his shirt, calloused hands on Ford's back and belly and squeeze. Ford makes a sound at the back of his throat, making him ache for some kind of retaliation. Instead of allowing Stan's prodding tongue access, Ford pulls back, taking Stan's bottom lip in his teeth and biting down. Hard. Stan jolts underneath him.

"Ow. Fuck, Ford."

"Oh, I though you liked that?" Ford sarcastically quips, not waiting  to hear the "yeah, yeah, keep going" to continue kissing and abusing Stan's already injured lips. Blood is in his mouth again from the earlier cut, and damn it it tastes good and it feels good. It's raw. Violent.

For a second Ford almost felt the appeal of the sport itself. The primal and animalistic need to hurt someone asking for it presents itself in Ford in hearing the pained moans Stan makes the more he roughly grinds his hips and presses fingers into bruises and nip at his lips and pull at his hair. It's cathartic, and it twists sparks in him like a lightning bolt, setting nerves on fire.

And this time Ford caused it to Stan. His dick is straining against his pants, begging for release, with Stan's hand rubbing against him through the fabric. Ford's own were running over his bruised, sweaty skin and sore muscles that he hadn't realized that Stan hadn't even showered yet. But Ford is going to need one too when they're done anyway, so he pulls the band of Stan's shorts enough to release his hard cock. Stan unbuttons his own pants, eyes on their cocks now, licking at his red, abused lips while Ford steadies himself on his shoulder, touching them both into completion.

"Ford..." Stan mutters adoringly and Stanford just loves the way he lets Ford take care of him like this, loves the way he goes weak in Ford's hands. Loves the way he shakes while he comes Ford's hands, and loves the way Stan obeys while Ford drags him to the shower, ready to arrive home late after another good match.

Ford liked that. Ford loved that. And he dislikes boxing lessons a little less everytime.

[octuscle]

i'm a skinny nerd from the northeast who goes to college in Kansas i'm about 5 foot 7 tall who was on my way to  the Chemistry Lab when a pair of big burly hands grabbed me , punched me in the gut. When i came to ,i was tied to a bench with rope in the male locker room. my legs were tied to a bar below the bench and my hands two the pegs above. my mouth was coved with duct tape with a mouthguard inside my mouth. i look down to see all my clothes were gone i was wearing only a jock strap . i have never worn a jockstrap before it was so uncomfortable .i look to see my red star trek t-shirt , my jeans, my sneakers and socks & my "geeky" white briefs were are cut up on the floor. i look up to see that i was surrounded by the hairiest, most manly, most self-centered, most muscled guys on campus : The college football team. the football team was wearing gray tank tops & crimson basketball shorts. the football players were who look like normal corn fed Kansas farm boys. they were at least 6 feet 3 inches tall in height and is broad-shouldered and muscular in build .they took off their tank tops i saw they all have 6 pack abs , substantial pecs and arms are also are broad-shouldered . they pull out a gym bag with my name on it with other pairs of boxers& jockstraps& clothes such as gym shorts, tank top including a red star trek tank top , sweats,  and a table right in front of me on that table was a football uniform, The helmet, cleats, jersey, and gear .they show me the jersey with my last name. they told me i was going to become a corn fed Kansas farm boy like them i will still be a geek. they told me all the guys on campus in town even the nerds on this small Kansas college campus has a 6 pack, substantial pecs and arms& are also broad-shouldered cause even the nerds work on farms & have to join the football team & get modeling gigs so they pay for college. when they put the football uniform on me turning from a skinny geek into a geeky Kansas farm boy.

Dude, I'm sorry, but sometimes it really pays to read the fine print. Your college has a partnership with us. When you enroll, you agree to undergo a Chronivac transformation if needed. And there is no need to justify the need. The mere fact that your upper arms are too small is sufficient. So welcome to Kansas, farm boy, I'm activating your jockstraps now, let the transformation begin!

Your body starts to tremble. Your hips shake. And your cock gets rock hard. The jockstrap fits your narrow hips and tight ass like a glove. A glove that is quickly soaked in precum while the twitches spread from your cock in all directions. Your thighs become powerful and hard as boards, your belly flattens and with every twitch your six pack becomes more and more prominent. At first you react in horror. But you enjoy it more and more. You would love to jerk off. But you have no control over your arms. Instead, your growing pecs start to dance. Your calves turn into real diamonds. And then the twitches reach your neck. It quickly becomes wider than your head. Your Adam's apple protrudes prominently, your moans become deeper and deeper. And as your facial features become more and more angular and masculine, your bulging muscles spread across your shoulders towards your hands.

Bruh, that was two weeks ago now. You have quickly become accustomed to your body. The only thing that bothers you is your smooth skin. But your body hair is already starting to grow. Soon you will be in no way inferior to your bruhs. Your brain and your cock are in a constant battle to see who controls you. But you are and always will be a geek. Your brain usually wins. But mercy on the ass you fuck if your cock wins.

You're still the same in your mind. Okay, you don't remember going to the philharmonic or art museums in your youth. You played football with your buddies and cleaned your old man's stable. But you're a geek and your goal is to get a good college degree. Even without a football scholarship. Although I'm sure you'd get it. Enjoy it, geek! There are worse things than growing up to be a really big boy in Kansas.

Pic found @backwardsnapback

[howtofightwrite]

Clothes Followup

Hi there. Professional sportswear outfitter and part-time athelete here just chiming in on how these choices are perfectly believable, in my humble opinion: #1 SHOES "sneakers" is a loose definition. but, if the character is wearing casual/lifestyle "sneakers" like jordan lows, vans, etc., these type of shoes are FLAT (not narrow running shoes). Flat soled sneakers are often preferred training shoes for mixed arts or lifting at the gym. You could wear boots, but you're sacrificing agility. As a female, I can say that a female character likely would not inflict such a handicap as BOOTS on herself. Feet are very resilient and resistant to pain and injury. Being able to move on your feet matters a lot more than protecting them does. PASS #2 PANTS. you are not punching someone's pants while boxing. and have you watched fight club? they mostly wear jeans. they're durable, wick moisture (although it feels unpleasant), and if they're fitted properly, they're not going to get in the way of your agility. Jeans are light armor if you're speaking in tabletop rpg terms. PASS #3 SHIRT. a good tshirt of a decent quality will wick moisture, will not be bulky or baggy, and will move with its wearer. tshirts are not expensive and are the best option outside a sleeveless top or topless for martial arts. Especially if you have boobs. Boxing in only a racerback sports bra is also viable, but a tshirt will provide light protection to the skin, which is a good idea in amateur boxing. If they're WEARING GLOVES, nobody is grappling anyone's shirt so there is no risk of clothes-grabbing violations happening there. If this ring is literally underground, it's probably cold. Clothes can be shed between matches, but it's often more important to be clothed appropriately so as to prevent both overheating and chills. Becoming chilled between fights is a greater danger to performance than getting sweaty is. PASS I also have questions as to the type of boxing gloves being used. Are they full padded gloves? Light knuckle pads? Do the boxers wear headgear? Mouthguards? What areas are allowed to be hit or is it a free-for-all? Maybe you think these details are mistakes, but I disagree. Half my job is punching boxes all day. Hot, sweaty, fully clothed, wearing comfortable shoes. Lots of moving around. If I am going to punch boxes (or faces) for hours, that's exactly how I'd dress. The rest of my job? Literally outfitting people with boxing equipment. Literally selling people clothing for athletics. I am also a footwear specialist. Thank you for taking the time to read this. :) -lilkittay

So, apologies in advance, lilkittay, but you're about to get dragged. This might come as a shock, but I actually have a copy of the novel Fight Club. I just found it wedged between a copy of Hell's Angels by Hunter S. Thompson, and the Demolished Man by Alfred Bester. I'm not going to try to figure out what lead to that sorting peculiarity. The book is exceptionally good, and if you've never read it, it's an easy (if somewhat unpalatable) recommendation. Stick it up there with books like Native Son, or Ivan Denisovich, in that it covers some really ugly subject matter, but discusses a problem exceptionally well. And, in the 27 years since the novel was originally published, it has proved itself fairly prescient. It's not about the violence, it is an excellent discussion on the underlying psychology of toxic masculinity.

Now, the last time I mentioned Fight Club, someone immediately piped up with, “you've lost all credibility.” That's their problem, but I didn't actually define it, and it is a term that gets thrown around without being defined. Toxic masculinity refers specifically to an individual who cannot engage with their own emotions, particularly painful ones, in a healthy way, because they view those behaviors as effeminate. As a result, they respond aggressively and, or, violently. That's the toxic part. You get dumped. Your pet dies. You get passed over for a promotion at work. And, instead of dealing with that in a healthy way. In any healthy way. You go out into the world and try to make someone else suffer. That is toxic.

Unfortunately, Fight Club is not the grown up version of Calvin and Hobbes, though that is an amusing fan theory, and something that holds together better in the film thanks to Brad Pitt's costuming decisions.

I'm saying all of this to point out, the characters in Fight Club have no idea how to fight.

More than that, jeans are not light armor. Motorcycle leathers? Sure, those would be light armor. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're described as light armor in D20 modern. But, the only place I'd expect to see denim categorized as light armor is a game that used, “light armor,” for mage gear, “medium armor,” as rogue's leather and chain, and, “heavy armor,” as warrior gear. Which is to say, yeah, that's not how that works at all.

The problem with jeans as armor is, they're really bad at it. Someone with a crowbar? Yeah, jeans aren't going to do anything about that. Someone with an axe? I've heard about the aftermath, it was not pretty. Against a sword? Nope. Against a knife? Personal experience says the knife will win without issue. In an underground fighting arena against someone driving a shin kick into your knee? Yeah, your jeans may look fine after the fact, but you're probably not using that leg again anytime soon.

But, that RPG comment made something click together a little, so back to footwear for a second.

Why would someone wear boots? Now, personally, I wear motorcycle boots in my day to day life. Not because I'm a rider, but because I find them more comfortable and convenient than normal dress shoes, and so long as I keep them buffed out, they pass for men's dress shoes at a glance. The interesting thing about this is that my heel has a wide, flat, block of wood under it at all times. If it was a matter of life and death, I could probably grind off a significant chunk of my heel bringing a bike to a stop without suffering any injury. Now, I bring this up, because driving 200-300lbs of force behind a sharply edged wooden mallet into your unarmored instep will not improve your agility.

In the real world, armor doesn't work like D&D. There's no equivalent exchange between mobility and being able to soak a hit. (And if you think there's an irony in substituting a term from one RPG for another... well, yeah. You're not wrong.) If you think someone's going to stomp on your foot, bring steel toed boots. What you lose in agility today, you make up for in your ability to walk without a cane tomorrow.

The paradox of humans is that we are both stupidly resilient, and horrifically fragile, at the same time. Now, at this point, I do want to say something genuinely nice to you, even if it sounds a tiny bit condescending. You've never looked at another person as 150-250lbs of ambulatory meat and considered the best way to take them apart with your hands. And you know what? That is a good thing. Embrace that, and don't let go, because never finding yourself in that kind of a place is a credit to you, and the world you've been able to live in.

All of that said, fighting another human being is not a workout. It's engineering. You're looking at an organic machine with roughly the same parts and pieces you have, and your goal is to make that machine stop thrashing around, screaming, and leaking on everything, before it does the same to you. It's not better. It's not worse. It's different, and it comes with different considerations. You don't dress to look good or stay comfortable, you dress to avoid life altering injuries if at all possible.

Competitive fighting does land at a meeting point of these two considerations however. The fighter wants to come out intact, the sponsors want good show, one that will draw an audience. This leads to things like fighting in a sports bra. Yes, it may be the most, “agile,” option, but if you're going to be in a fist fight, a heavy leather jacket, preferably one with fiberglass plates may not breathe, but it will take far more abuse than your body can. (Actually, I think sometimes the inserts are made out of memory foam these days, which should also take a hit pretty effectively, especially against an unarmed foe.)

This isn't a major issue, but it is something to consider, when thinking about the temperature of the arena, it's important to remember that human body heat in a crowded space is somewhat cumulative. So, a room that starts out at around 60 degrees, could easily warm up to a comfortable temperature once the spectators are present. There's actually consistent math for calculating what you should set the thermostat for in an amphitheater when it's unoccupied so that the temperature is comfortable when the seats are filled, but I can't remember the numbers, and can't find it on short notice.

You do bring up a good point, the original Anon did not specify what kind of gloves were used. I assumed those were nominally regulation boxing gloves, but those could be something like the UFC gloves from a couple decades back, that left the fingers exposed while armoring the knuckles. The armor on those gloves allowed the wearer to inflict all kinds of horrific injuries on one's foes. In an event Michi is quite happy to recount, her younger brother almost lost an eye to a skull fracture from one of those during a poorly supervised sparring bout. It's fairly credible to suggest that an illegal fight club might use those simply to excite the crowds with actual bloodshed.

Now, as someone who has worked in shipping, I know full well that sometimes boxes do hit back. However, they are the exception rather than the rule. There's nothing wrong with practicing on punching bags, but boxes aren't trying to break you. At worst, they may just want to take a nap on the floor without regard to whether you're in the way or not. Live opponents? They're looking at you as however many pounds of meat machinery, and trying to end you. Looking good doesn't make their job harder, but armoring up does.

Anyway, like I said to the original Anon, nothing in their explanation was outright wrong. A lot of it was non-optimal, but not to such a degree as to shatter belief. The mistake you're making, and I really do say this with respect, is that you're looking at it like any other physical activity. As I said, combat is not a work out. Combat as a hazardous environment beyond the reach of OSHA. You wear protective gear (if you can) because that protection may be the difference between walking out alive and (basically) unharmed, or never walking again. You wouldn't (or at least, really shouldn't) take a bike out on the freeway at 60mph in jeans and a tees, you really don't want to get in a fight wearing them either.

-Starke

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[foursaints]

is women's hockey a thing? cause i can totally see aggressive no-nonsense hockey player lily who had a brief thing with barty and tries to woo fairy princess figure skater pandora out of spite but actually finds she really likes her. bcs of that forced proximity shit or whatever barty and lily are not on i-catch-you-in-public-ill-rip-out-a-vital-organ terms anymore.

i'm sorry because the pandalily content in this ask is legit amazing but... the way that figure skater!barty & hockey player!lily would interact is making me fucking INSANE

no-nonsense women's hockey player lily. she's this hassled team leader with a lucky mouthguard and a sweaty ponytail. and barty keeps gracefully (gracefully!) swanning up with his fuckass thermal pullover and tongue piercing? to condescendingly pat her head??

she throws a dasani water bottle at his head in the middle of olympic village and it goes viral on snapchat. his hotel room is right next to hers and he always makes sure to be LOUD AS FUCK when kicking his nightly hookups out. they keep catching each other doing insomniac stress-stretches in the hallways at 3am?

i think SHE calls HIM "princess" but is continually surprised by how fucking built he is whenever she sees him at the village gym. he's an entire foot taller than her. he has an Adidas sponsorship & hers is with Nike but they both want to swap. she looks unfairly adorable putting KT tape on her calves? they definitely have a blood feud but he ended up being the person sitting with her in the nurse's office when a puck knocked her tooth out during practice?

[featherandferns]

underneath the gloves (fic)

jj maybank x fem!reader | the final part of the F.W.B universe, but can maybe be read as a stand-alone

content warning: mentions of drug use; fighting; mentions/discussions of SA/trauma (see here for context, or feel free to message and ask)

word count: 7k

blurb: after you lose a match, things seem to spiral out of control. it seems to come to a head after a confrontation with Kelce, leaving you to confess to JJ why you sometimes are the way you are.

Your ears are still ringing. Head pounding like it had been thumped against concrete, over and over; brain feeling as though it had been rattled around your skull. Knuckles and fists aching. Limbs screaming for reprieve. Knees and hands on the floor. Chest heaving. Panting for air. Unable to stand. There’s only one thought, running on repeat:

You lost.

The crowd in the school gymnasium is cheering. Applaud and hollers and whoops. But none of it is for you. It’s for Beth Sunder, the Kook girl that you were so sure you could beat. She was smaller than you; not as accomplished. It should have been an easy win. Why wasn’t it an easy win?

There’s an arm on your bicep, helping you to your feet. You somehow stand, body crying out for rest. As you face the crowd, eyes unfocused, you still think the same thought. You lost.

You don’t look over to Beth as the ref holds her arm up in the air. You don’t look out to the crowd – search for the faces of your friends, your parents, JJ. You decide to stare at the floor, breathing heavy. You lost.

It’s on instinct that you leave the ring once it’s appropriate for you to be dismissed. You don’t do the sportsman thing and congratulate Beth. Don’t even look at her. How can you? If you meet her gaze, you’ll only hate yourself more. It should’ve been an easy win. The gloves come off first, and the bandages, letting your hands breath. You wince as you stretch out your fingers, feeling them scream. The mouthguard gets spat out into the sink. Your coach seems to know to leave you alone. Heading to the showers, you shrug out of your clothes and stand under the scorching stream. It doesn’t help. Everything feels vacant; like you’re floating through life, not really there. Wash your hair, your body, your face. Dry off and change into your joggers and a tee. Barely brush your hair and don’t bother to style it or tame it back. When you look in the mirror to inspect any injuries, there’s that voice again. You lost.

You look into your eyes. There’s some bruising coming up underneath the right. Your lip’s split. No tears come. The adrenaline hasn’t faded yet from the fight. It’s still pumping around your body, and it seems to fuel anger. You sigh and shake it off. Grabbing your gym bag, you hang up your gloves in your locker and tie your shoelaces.

September air is sticky and dense, doing nothing to sooth the anxiety building under your skin. The Pogues are waiting outside the school gym for you, with the Twinkie. John B and Sarah sit in the front, with Kiara and Pope in the back. The back door is open. JJ leans against the passenger side, arms crossed over his chest. When he sees you, he offers a smile. His expression and everything about his demeanour scream sympathy and pity, and it makes you feel sick. You lost.

JJ doesn’t say anything. Just holds out his hand to take your gym bag. You almost toss it at him, climbing into the back, collapsing onto one of the seats. Your body cries out in thanks as you lean against the wall with a pained sigh, tipping your head back and closing your eyes.

“How you doing?” Kiara asks.

You purse your lips.

How are you doing? You lost – how do they think you’re doing?

“Fine,” you mumble.

There’s the sound of the door sliding shut and you feel JJ take the spot beside you. Your arms are folded over your chest. He settles on patting your knee, squeezing it in consolation, and it takes everything in you not to shrug it off. Your mind isn’t on the conversation that awkwardly starts up between the gang. It’s on the fight. Replaying every swing. Every punch that you should have dodged and every hit that you should have landed. That last one that Beth ducked out the way of, and her upper cut that had you falling to the ground, vision blurry, jaw close to snapping. It was obvious. You would’ve seen it coming from a mile away if you were watching it unfold from the crowd.

“How’s that sound, babe?”

You seem to register that it’s JJ talking, and that whatever he’s just asked is directed to you. Opening your eyes, you look to him in question. His hand is still on your knee and he squeezes again.

“Up for a house party?”

“Sure,” you say.

“You don’t have to,” Pope offers from the floor. You look over to him and shrug. Stretching out your arms, you sigh.

“Why not? Free booze, right?”

“Yeah, but is it best to drink after a fight? According to research, after a head injury—”

“Dude,” JJ says, cutting Pope off on his spiel.

The intelligent boy closes his mouth and nods, apologetic, looking out the window. You feel bad. You didn’t mean to bring down the energy for the night. It’s then that you notice how tense it is in the Twinkie. The radio’s on but it’s so quiet and makes everything feel ten times worse. Nobody wants to look at you. You hate it.

“He’s not wrong,” you say, finding a chuckle. “Probably not best to drink but when I am ever one to do the smart thing?”

“You’re not JJ,” Kiara can’t help but joke. JJ flips her off. You force a laugh. Pope seems to come back around, smiling at you.

“Guess he’s rubbing off on me,” you shrug, winking at the innuendo. Sarah must’ve spotted this in the rear-view mirror because she cringes, groaning out your name in disapproval.

“Gross.”

The group laughs, finding their rhythm again. JJ squeezes your knee for a third time, catching your attention. His eyes almost make your persona break: that everything’s fine, and that you’re okay with losing. Like it’s not eating you alive, making you want to crawl out of your skin, peel off your nails, and tear out your hair.

“You sure?” he quietly asks.

No, you’re not sure. The smart thing to do would be to go home, or back to the chateau, and sleep. Come to terms with the loss in your own time, in your own way. Eat something, since you’ve been fasting most of the day and burnt off your energy in the hour-long fight. Drink water and not cheap beer and vodka-heavy cocktails. Curl up in bed to your comfort show, ideally with JJ by your side, pulling you into his chest.

But JJ’s never seen you lose before. You never wanted him to. And you don’t want his friends thinking you’re some lame chick who can’t deal with a loss in a fight that doesn’t even count towards anything. So, you smile and nod.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you tell him, saying it in a way that makes it seem like he’s crazy for checking.

JJ doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t say anything. Just nods, eventually, and looks back to the front. You worry he’s mad at you, or disappointed, and the anxiety from it brings another round of adrenaline. To try and settle it, you lean your head on his shoulder and untangle your arms from yourself so you can take his hand into your hold.

Now that you’re acting like yourself some more, the group falls into their usual shenanigans. Conversation kicks up between Kiara and Sarah, with Pope chiming in from time to time. JJ begins to crack jokes, John B adding on to keep the humour flowing, and your fake laugh becomes so second-nature, it starts to almost feel real. Maybe this will be fine. A party would probably lighten your mood. The night was still young and things could easily turn around. You pull back to look at JJ. Take in his carefree smile, as he watches Kiara halfway re-enact some surf trick that she’d tried out the other day. Smile a little at his laugh when she mimics falling into the water. JJ seems to feel your gaze because looks down at you, brows furrowing in question. You don’t speak and instead press a kiss to his lips.

“Hey! No PDA in the twinkie,” John B heckles.

JJ flips him off in reply, not pulling away. When he does, he tells John B that he’s jealous. John B denies this, to which JJ says, ‘denial is a river in Africa’, with Pope soon correcting it to Egypt, earning the bird from your boyfriend. The ridiculousness of it has the girls laughing, including you.

There’s a few more twists and turns on the roads before John B’s pulling up into a spot on a street. Cars line the left and right side. There are people walking past, towards a house. It’s not quite Kook level but certainly nicer than something on the cut. Average, really. The gang excitedly chatters, getting up and fixing themselves. Sarah checks her hair in the rear-view and Kiara pulls on her beanie. Pope’s anxiously fixing the collar of his shirt. John B opens the back door for you all, and you and JJ jump out last, hands still intertwined. You all begin towards the house: the foursome slightly ahead, deep in effervescent chatter.

“You lemme know if you wanna leave early or anything,” JJ says to you.

You look away from the Pogues to meet his gaze. You nod, smiling. “Okay.”

“I’m serious. I’ve been to like a million of these things. We’re not gonna miss out on anything.”

The irritation threatens to come back. You push it away and try not to sound bitchy when you say, “I know, JJ. I’m no stranger to house parties either, remember? I had a life before I met you.”

JJ takes it as a joke, thankfully, and laughs, nodding. “Fair enough.”

Your arms sway lightly as the two of you walk up to the house. JJ fixes his cap as he jogs up the stairs, you in tow. Your thighs scream out. You’re tired and should be in bed, but you repeat your mantra (life is short and the night is long), and think about the drinks to be had and the weed to be smoked and the whole packet of cigarettes in your pocket that you’d pre-bought in celebration. Now, they’ll just be in consolation, you suppose.

The music can be heard from the front garden, so when you pass into the threshold of the house, it’s blaringly loud. You almost want to wince. The tinnitus from earlier still hadn’t worn off and the loud music only seemed to make it worse. For being fairly early in the night, there’s a good crowd of people about. Not so cramped that you can’t move, but enough that you must wriggle through a little. JJ calls out ‘hey’ to a couple of people he recognises. You watch as John B does a lazy handshake with someone from school as the lot of you head to the kitchen for a drink. Kiara and Sarah begin to grab some cans, passing them around. Finally, you remove your hand from JJ’s and crack one open. Kiara holds hers up in a proposed toast.

“To the rest of the night,” she announces.

“To the rest of our lives,” JJ grins, clinking his can to hers. The rest of you follow. Your smile feels genuine once more. It’s like you’re zipping back and forth from emotion to emotion. Alcohol will definitely help. Yep.

Necking half the can, you cringe at the bitter taste as it crawls down your throat.

After that, the group begins to split off. One beer turns to two, then three, then five. You do a couple of shots for good measure: vodka and sambuca. Beer pong with Kiara against two Kooks doesn’t seem like the worse idea, until you’re seven drinks under just from that. The walls begin to bend and stretch. There are some little gaps of how you get from one place to the next: skipping out the dull parts. You stumble through the doorway of the kitchen, the cup in your hand empty.

You’ve lost all the Pogues by now, including JJ. Part way through beer pong he got roped into a conversation and then you lost track of him. On the basis that you barely knew where you had been or where you were going, it seemed futile to search for him. The sting from losing didn’t hurt that bad anymore though. It felt like the memory of a bad dream; miles away and unable to hurt you. You couldn’t tell JJ how much it was bothering you. You didn’t think he’d get it. Didn’t think he’d understand. He had enough problems, anyway. Your dumb insecurities were nothing that needed to be added. They seemed almost pathetic when stood against his troubles and concerns.

There’s a couple chatting when you get to the counter where the drinks are. You sort of elbow them out the way, ignoring their murmurs, grateful when they get the hint. You sigh and try and focus on the labels. As you go to reach for what you’re pretty sure is the vodka, there’s somebody shoving to stand beside you. They’re crowding your personal space, stand tall enough to cast a small shadow over you. You roll your eyes and bite your tongue. After the fight, your patience had been worn thin.

“Fancy seeing you here, huh?”

The lid that you’re halfway through unscrewing gets abandoned. You look up at who had come to stand near you.

“Great. As if today can get any better,” you mumble, looking back down to the vodka. There’s a new urgency to fill your cup.

“That anyway to greet an old friend?” Kelce asks, sardonic.

“That’s a generous use of the word,” you tell him.

The cup is halfway full now. It’s hard to judge things when your vision won’t seem to stay straight.

Before you can reach for the orange juice, Kelce is topping up your cup. “Vodka orange. You really don’t change, do you?”

“Is there a reason you’re tryna piss me off right now?” you ask sharply, looking up to his side profile.

He raises his brows, as if shocked by your comment, and it makes your stomach contort. Leisurely, Kelce puts down the juice and turns to meet your gaze. It’s weird how similar he looks to when he was younger. Just taller, more grown, some ageing around the jaw from the beginnings of stubble. When he holds your cup out to you, you feel reluctant to take it - taking anything from him is like accepting help from a corrupted cop - but you do. The memories his presence brings up feel easier when washed down with alcohol.

“You forget your manners?” he wonders. He picks up his own drink and takes a sip. JJ likes to tease you for the same thing, but when Kelce does, it doesn’t make you roll your eyes with mirth. It makes you annoyed.

“Thank you so much for your help, Kelce.”

When you say it, there’s a sickly-sweet smile on your face. It’s as fake as a politician’s candidacy. You move to leave, but Kelce starts speaking again before you can slip away.

“Heard you lost your fight,” he says. You freeze and look back to him. The sympathy he feigns makes your blood begin to boil. “I remember you were a sore loser. How you holding up?”

“Like you care.”

He shrugs and takes another drink. The plastic of your cup is beginning to warp in your grip.

“Lover boy doing much to ease the pain? Where’s he at, anyway?”

He seems to know he’s touched a nerve. There’s a smirk beginning to show.

“None of your business,” you tell him, bordering on a sneer.

“So you can’t find him either, huh? Probably for the best. Last I saw, he was chatting with some pretty brown-haired chick in the sitting room. Think she goes to Kildare High.”

You know Kelce’s ways. How he likes to get a rise out of anyone, especially you. The grovelling that he does to anyone above him - like a pathetic follower like a rescued puppy, afraid of being abandoned again – and the sneering he shows to the people below. You know how half the things that leave his mouth are disingenuous. But for some reason, you feel yourself lean into his words. Entertain him for a little too long.

“I told you to mind your business.”

Kelce ignores you. Goes on. “Yeah, yeah. They seemed pretty cosy, too.”

You feel your intestines warp at the thought. You know it’s bullshit. Makes the anger worse.

Clicking his tongue, he looks down at you. “Guess being the slut of Kildare isn’t everything, huh? Can’t keep even the scummiest of boys happy.”

It’s funny how easy you hear it. Over the pandemonium of overlapping conversations, the clambering of voices fighting to be heard, the bass of whatever house song is currently being blasted, you can easily make out Kelce’s flippant insult. What’s funnier is how quickly it takes effect. It hits you the same way Beth’s upper cut had. The adrenaline that had been lingering in your body for hours turns to gasoline in a split-second, and Kelce’s barely-there smirk is the spark. You don’t register tossing your cup to the side, or the closing of your fingers into a fist. The power behind the punch you throw is second nature. Maybe you yell before you throw it; you’re not entirely sure. The alcohol is making everything blur together into one confusing, continuous nightmare. Everything from the night is scrambling into this magnanimous, Machiavellian, murderous mess. The fight. The loss. The Pogues. JJ. Kelce. This.  

If people stop their conversations and pause to watch, gasping and shouting in panic or jeer, you don’t know. Your focus is on landing as many hits to Kelce’s face as you can. You’ve somehow managed to catch him off guard. He goes to bring his hands to defend himself, reflexively lashing at your face, and when the slap hits your cheek, it only adds more kindling to your fury. You lay another and another. You shrug off someone’s hands on your back, wanting to swing at them too. It’s then that you realise you’re screaming, hurling abuse at him. Any word you can think of. Any word that you know. Any word that’s ever been said to you. It starts to contort in your drunken haze, and it feels as if you’re attacking yourself. Berating her and heckling her.

“JJ!”

It’s Sarah screaming. Calling for help.

“Stop it!”

Kiara’s the one that’s been clawing at you. Trying to pull you off.

“JJ!”

When two arms wrap around your waist, hoisting you away from Kelce, you know it’s JJ before you hear his voice, angry and loud in your ear. “What the hell are you doing? Stop it!”

You’re still throwing punches, even though there’s no way they’d land on Kelce. Through the blur of it all – of your anger and the alcohol – you can make out Kelce’s face. It’s bloody and banged up, nearly bruising already, but it does nothing to appease you. It’s not enough. He needs to hurt like you hurt. You’re seething. Panting through your teeth that are barred like a lioness about to strike. Jaw tense and fists still clenched. Eventually, you register that you’re being half-carried-half-dragged outside. You violently shrug out of JJ’s hold and the move of it all makes you stumble forward. The dizziness hits in full force. A hand comes to your arm as you lurch forward in an attempt to catch your balance, but you shake it off.

“Would you stop it?” JJ snaps, trying to grab you again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Get off of me!” you shout. It makes the dizziness worse and you close your eyes.

JJ’s saying your name, trying to calm you down, trying to grab at you over and over. He’s angry, voice loud. You keep fighting out of his hold and usher him away. Stumbling further down the front garden, you can barely make out where you’re going. Someone’s looking at you, whispering to their friend, and you start shouting at them too. Cussing them out. JJ tries to barter with you once more when you do, this time coming to stand in front of you. You push him away, feet scrambling backwards in the process. It takes a while for you to get your balance.

Everything’s a mess.

You bring a hand up to rub at your forehead as if trying to erase the fog. The world won’t stay still and your vision won’t level out and now that the adrenaline is wearing off, everything hurts more. The pain in your knuckles and the ache in your muscles and the sting of Kelce’s slap to your cheek. When you lick at your lip, you realise the force from it had opened the cut again, tasting the copper of blood on your tongue. But all of it is so minute, so insignificant, to the clenching in your chest. You can’t breathe.

“Baby, just stop,” JJ’s saying. He’s not angry anymore – at least, he doesn’t sound it. He’s almost pleading, desperate to have you listen, his touch more tender as he grabs at your biceps. “Stop walking, okay? You need to focus on getting your breathing right.”

You shake your head and try and pull away again. But there’s nothing left in the tank. Everything hurts. Why does it all hurt?

The tears start to come. No. No.

You shake your head again, uselessly willing them away. JJ doesn’t seem to understand though; thinks you’re shaking your head at him. There’re murmurs from other people and the music is still loud and your ears are still ringing and all of it hurts. It just hurts.

The ground meets you quickly.

It’s the feeling of a hand on your back, stroking under the fabric of your shirt, that draws you back to reality. You’re lying on your side, it seems. Everything about it disorientates you and you whimper, trying to open your eyes.

JJ’s shushing you. It’s his hand, moving up and down. Your head’s on his lap. Can feel the move of one of his legs as he shifts in the seat.

“We’re nearly at the house,” he tells you softly.

You don’t really know what that means but you feel like it’s a good thing. A weak nod is your answer and you close your eyes again. It feels nicer to have them shut. There’s a conversation happening above you, hushed and impossible to follow. You focus on the stroke of JJ’s hand and let it ground you. The more you come around, the more you notice. A foul, lingering taste in your mouth, as if you’ve thrown up, and a sticky dryness on your cheeks from tears. When you stretch out your fingers, you wince. The cuts that had formed on your knuckles crack open and air stings at the open wounds. There’s a dull ache in your head. Jesus Christ - what a mess.

The car stops. You have enough sense in you now to figure out that you’re in the twinkie. The voice that had been talking to JJ goes quiet. A door opens then shuts. The cold air hits your arms when another opens, nearer to you. JJ’s shaking your shoulders gently.

“Come on, baby. Gotta sit up for me.”

You try to nod. Slowly easing yourself up, relying on JJ for help, you weakly slink out of the car. It’s John B, of course, waiting outside the door. He takes your forearm gently and lets you lean on him as you both wait for JJ to climb out. JJ and John B chat some more, quick and quiet, and then JJ’s coaxing you towards the house. Your legs feel like jelly. The van’s engine starts up but you don’t turn to look, instead focusing on making your way up the stairs of the porch.

“How you feeling?” JJ wonders.

“Like God’s having a migraine in my head,” you mumble.

He chuckles, solemn. “Yikes.”

Through the dark living space and the corridor you go, finally walking into the spare bedroom which yourself and JJ have unofficially claimed. The squish of the mattress and scratchiness of the quilt is like the embrace of an old friend. You sigh as you crawl to the pillows, curling into yourself. JJ rubs at your shoulder.

“I’m gonna grab you some water, alright? And a trash can in case you need to hurl again.”

Slipping in out and rest, you pull your knees closer to your chest. The dip of the bed when JJ sits down pulls you awake again, but there’s no energy left in you to open your eyes. There’s the shuffling of sheets and clothes, and then a blanket’s draped over you. Underneath, JJ wraps an arm over your waist, spooning against your back. You feel him press a kiss to your exposed shoulder.

“We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

You don’t reply. A part of you wants to cry at how sweet he’s being when you don’t deserve any of it, but there’s nothing left in you to produce a tear, led alone shed it.

Before you drift off, you hear JJ’s whispering voice.

“I love you.”

The hangover is brutal, like a train hitting a brick wall. It’s the thing that wakes you up. Groaning, you hesitate to open your eyes and face the music.

There’s barely a moment of peace before the memories of the night before come shooting back. Each one makes you want to wince as if taking an oncoming bullet. You shift in bed and roll onto your back. Sighing at the ceiling, you open your eyes. Step one, done.

Looking to your side, you see JJ. He’s still asleep, facing you, lips parted in silent snores. It makes you smile. The expression soon turns sombre, as you remember the chaos of the party. The sound of his voice, shouting at you, and then the worry shining through stronger whilst he kept trying to hold you. After everything else that had happened, the lost fight seemed like the set-up of a skit. Blacking out and riding home in the twinkie would be the punchline, you suppose.

You ease the blanket off you and try your best to sneak out of the bed without waking him. You can stand on two feet pretty good. Trudging to the bathroom, you relieve yourself before shrugging out of your clothes. The shower takes a few minutes to heat up and you kill the time by inspecting your injuries in the mirror. Black eye, split lip…Vague outline of a handprint on your cheek. Joy. You didn’t exactly blame Kelce for it; if somebody was throwing punches at your face, you think you’d react in a similar way. You also didn’t feel any pity for doing what you did. Was it completely unhinged? Yes. Was it rightfully deserved? Abso-fucking-lutely.

You brush your teeth to try and rid the awful hangover taste from your mouth and then climb into the shower. Wash your hair again and your body, as if trying to rinse away any remnants of yesterday. Dry off and walk back to the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, clothes tucked under your arm in a bundle. You inspect the bedroom floor for clothes and steal one of JJ’s shirts. A pair of boxers is retrieved from the closet draw. You dress in the morning sunlight that sneaks through the few inches that the blind hadn’t closed. As you pull on the boxers, you stumble backwards into the dresser, causing it to bang against the wall. It startles JJ awake.

“Sorry,” you say meekly.

He blinks, taking you in, delirious from the lingering sleep.

“Is your hair wet?” His voice is croaky and low (and truthfully, kind of sexy) from want of use.

“Yeah,” you reply, bringing a hand up to tease through it. “I got a shower.”

“Oh.”

He sighs and sinks back down into the bed, now lying on his front. The blanket is down at his waist, bare back on display. Now dressed, you walk back to the bed and climb over him, sitting atop of the sheet, back against the headboard.

“Thanks for looking after me last night,” you eventually say, quiet.

JJ shrugs tiredly.

“I’ll always look after you,” he casually mumbles into the pillow. He doesn’t know how much weight is held in his words.

You pull your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin atop. Closing your eyes feels the only way to keep from crying.

“How’re you feeling?” JJ wonders. You open your eyes to look down at him.

“Like shit,” you admit.

“Hangovers can be hell,” he says.

And, yes, the hangover sucks, but that’s not what you mean. Telling him so is harder, though. The power behind your voice is feeble and it gives you away.

“Not because of that.”

It seems enough to wake JJ up. He lets out a quiet grunt as he pushes himself up. Your eyes are shut again, not sure if you can handle watching him as he looks at you. There’re the sounds of sheets moving as JJ sits. You wonder if he’ll move to hold you. He must choose not to and you can’t decide if you’re grateful or not.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“It’s so dumb,” you sniffle through a self-deprecating laugh. Your skin smells like soap. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, you nearly K.O’d Kelce and then did a pretty good passing-out-throwing-up move after so…I feel like it does matter,” JJ lightly presses. It helps; makes you smile sadly against your skin. He sighs. “I just wanna know what’s going on.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you repeat. JJ goes to protest but you lift your head, turning it to meet his gaze. The worry in his eyes makes your tears worse. “It’s so fucking stupid compared to all the shit you’ve got going on.”

JJ frowns.

“It’s not a competition,” he says simply. “Just cause someone’s got a broken leg doesn’t mean your paper cut doesn’t hurt.”

The metaphor makes you laugh. It’s tearful and weak and pathetic, and all the things you’re not, and you hate it. You hate that you have to admit to yourself and to JJ that maybe you’re not all that you scrub yourself up to be.

“You gonna let me in on the dialogue you got going on in your head?”

“All that it’s saying is that that was a really cheesy analogy,” you weakly joke.

JJ rolls his eyes and smiles. “I’ll take on the feedback.”

The sound of a bird outside has your attention switching. You turn your head away from JJ to look to the window. Through the sheer blinds you can just make out the banks outside of the chateau. Daylight shines happy, outlining the horizon and water reeds and tree trunks and canopies. Seeing it makes things feel simple. It grounds you enough to speak.

“I didn’t think I was gonna lose the fight,” you confess quietly.

JJ doesn’t speak. You wonder if maybe he didn’t hear you.

“It wasn’t like it was an important fight, baby,” he tells you. You keep staring out to the scenery through the blinds, trying to make out more details. “It came close, as well.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t like to lose.”

“You can’t win all of them,” JJ replies.

You chuckle, sadly. If only it was that simple. Shaking your head, you try your best to verbalise it.

“I have to win. It’s…It’s like it’s the only time I feel truly good about myself.”

You don’t give JJ time to reply. Turning away from the window and back to your boyfriend, you sit up straighter and wipe your cheeks.

“I always feel like I’m the worst, so I try to act like I’m the best. Try to be funny and cool and aloof. Unbothered. Truth is…I care what people think about me, all the time. Too much for it to be normal.”

JJ’s lips are in a line, bordering on a frown. He’s watching you like he’s trying to understand; or maybe he does, and he just wants to let you continue. Either way, you keep talking.

“This…thing happened to me in school, when I was thirteen, and I feel like it was this formative experience that shaped the rest of my life. Made me the way I am.”

The memories flicker to life in your mind like watching home movies and it brings more tears. You shakily inhale, glancing up at the ceiling as you gather some courage. You’d never told anybody this before. Never spoken about it since it happened. It’s hard to know where to start, exactly.

“Me and Kelce used to date,” you reveal.

In your peripheral, you see JJ’s lips part at the news. It makes you chuckle, rolling your eyes at your past self.

“I know, I know. I’m not proud of it. It was this dumb thing when we were thirteen. He had a crush on me after seeing me at this church thing, and some notes were passed and whatever, and somehow, we ended up dating. If you can even call it dating. Truth was, I was kinda excited. He was this cute guy who had more money than I could even comprehend, and he wanted me. Weird little pre-teen me. It felt kinda nice, being the only girl with a boyfriend, and a Kook one at that. God, every girl was jealous of me at school.”

You laugh at the memory. School was so fickle back then, as were your emotions. You could recall planning your wedding and your friends falling out as to who was going to be the maid of honour. It all feels so foreign now.

As you go on, you fix your gaze on the wall ahead.

“The longer we went out, the more he wanted to fool around. I knew I wasn’t ready for that. I barely had a grasp on kissing; I wasn’t in any place to have sex. But he really, really wanted to. And I really, really liked him. Thought I loved him, in my stupid little thirteen-year-old brain. I didn’t want him to stop liking me.”

When a quiet comes, as the painful memories begin to push past the puppy-dog ones, JJ hesitantly fills the quiet.

“Did you? Have sex with him?”

Pursing your lips, you shake your head. “No. But…He asked for some pictures, one night, and I couldn’t see the harm in it. I sent them on Snapchat, cause I thought they’d delete. He never screenshotted them either, so I figured that it was all done. He seemed really happy about it. I didn’t deep it that much and we just kept on dating for a bit.”

The room begins to feel a little claustrophobic and you pull yourself away from your knees. Stretching your legs out, you lean against the headboard again and look up at the ceiling. JJ’s eyes are on you, watching and waiting patiently. You search your head for the words.

“You ever gone somewhere and know that people are talking about you? I don’t mean in a self-obsessed way. I mean in the worst way. Like you’re a spectacle for them to look at. Well, I went to school one day, and I just knew that everyone was looking at me and talking about me. It wasn’t until later on that I knew why. I remember it so clearly, even though it was like five years ago now. I went outside for lunch and was sat with my friends, and this girl on the table across starts showing her phone to her friends. They all start laughing.

And then they all start looking at me.”

When you look to JJ, his eyes are closed, as if in pain.

He knows.

“There’s this app you can download, where pictures that you get sent on Snapchat automatically save onto your phone, without ever telling the other person. Kelce didn’t delete them. He saved them and he showed them to his friends. The wrong person got them and made this anonymous twitter account. Leaked them online. And suddenly everyone at Kildare High and Kook Academy had seen my nudes.”

You’re crying now, trying to suppress your sobs and failing.

“And thirteen-year-olds are stupid. They can’t comprehend in their little underdeveloped, fucked up heads, that they’re looking at a person on their phone. That they were laughing and talking and looking at me. That it was the most humiliating, horrific feeling in the world, to know that everybody knows what you look like naked without you wanting them to. And for your boyfriend to be the reason why.”

JJ’s shaking his head. His jaw begins to tense, a clear shot sign that he’s angry. You look down at your legs and begin to mess with the ring he gave you – twisting it around your thumb.

“You wanna know what he said, when I confronted him about it? When I asked why he showed people them? Showed them to his friends?”

JJ doesn’t answer. You scoff as you recall it. The look on Kelce’s face – innocent like butter couldn’t melt in his mouth – when he shrugged off your hurt.

Another tear falls as you shake your head, lifting it just high enough to say, “he told me he wanted to ‘show me off.’ Like it was this romantic thing he’d done.”

From the corner of your eye, JJ’s shaking his head, running his fingers through his hair. You shakily take in a breath, wiping at your cheeks.

“Thanks to him and his kindness, I became the slut of Kildare. That’s what he said to me last night; the thing that set me off? He told me you were trying to get with another girl at the party, and then called me the slut of Kildare. It all just came screaming back and, after the fight and everything…I don’t know. I guess I just lost it.”

“Kinda wish I didn’t pull you off him, now,” JJ mumbles, hardly joking.

You laugh through your tears. The effort of it makes you cry more.

“I remember that happening. I remember hearing about the pictures and stuff at school.”

You turn to meet his gaze. There’s something blank in his look and you can’t quite tell what he’s thinking, but you feel like you might have an idea. You smile sympathetically, as if in understanding.

“It’s okay if you saw them, JayJ. I’m not expecting thirteen-year-olds to have the strongest moral backbones.”

But before you can finish your sentence, JJ’s shaking his head. “I never looked at them. Never felt right to.”

You pause, taken aback. “Really?”

He nods, pushing his fingers through his hair. It might be the most serious you’ve ever heard him, when JJ says, “I swear on my life, I never saw them.”

Swallowing, you close your eyes and nod. He never saw them.

“It’s so dumb, cause like a month later, everybody had forgotten it was a thing for the most part. Me and Kelce broke up – obviously – and never really spoke again. Except when we run into each other at parties. He likes to bring it up from time to time. Like he wasn’t the reason why I got the nickname.

I decided that being a slut wasn’t really a thing, and after my first proper boyfriend, decided that I actually like having sex. That it feels good. And I've sent nudes again, after, cause I wanted to.

I act like it doesn’t bother me, and usually it doesn’t, but sometimes…Sometimes I just find myself wondering after I get with someone, if they’d seen the pictures. If they were just curious to see the ‘where are they now’ version or whatever.”

At your solemn laugh, JJ chuckles. He shakes his head at the reference.

You sigh and shrug, wiping at your face once more. The tears have begun to slow. It feels like a weight’s been lifted off your chest. Like you’re breathing properly, with both lungs, for the first time in five years. The truth behind your competitive nature and your need for control. The insecurity behind your relationships that you never voiced and never confronted, brushing it under the rug, always knowing it to be there.

The prod of JJ’s toe on your foot brings your attention back.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I really like the ‘where are they now’ version,” he says.

You laugh. It feels like he's picked a pebble from out of your heart, making it lighter. “You do?”

“Mhm.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that you’re dating ‘the slut of Kildare’?” As you say the stupid nickname, you put on a voice as if presenting royalty.

JJ’s hand finds yours and loops your fingers together. “Honestly, I’m honoured that she’s settled for me.”

“Settled?”

He shrugs, smiling at you. “Everybody knows I’m punching.”

You shake your head in disagreement, jokingly adding, “let’s not talk about punching for a while, m’kay?”

JJ laughs at that. He tugs you nearer as his humour dies down, though his smile stays, and you lie against his chest. A kiss is planted to the top of your forehead.

“Thanks for telling me all that.”

You look up to him and take in his face. The slant of his brows and the cupid’s bow of his lips, smiling at you like you’ve given him the secret to the universe in your childhood-trauma-tale. Nothing’s changed in the way he looks at you; he still just sees you. You’re not sure you’ve ever had somebody understand you in the way he does, and get you like him. You worry that you may never find someone like JJ again. It’s a stupid worry, because you haven’t lost him.

Leaning up to kiss him, feeling fully at ease once you do, you can’t help but wonder how the hell you got so lucky.

“I love you,” you tell him. You feel it’s the only way to verbalise all you want to tell him. The two of you had never been very good with words.

A flush comes to his cheeks and the smile he gives you is one that you know is reserved for your eyes. Could solve any problem and heal any injury.

JJ kisses you once more, hard and certain.

“I love you too.”

[failedintsave]

Bucci Gang HCs Nobody Asked For

Sleep Edition

Bucciarati

Sleeping: sleeps either 2 hours or 12, no in-between; sprawls like a starfish and snores like a chainsaw when he isn't just catnapping; blanket thief, but ends up kicking most of them off the bed; one old, flat pillow; has to set 50 alarms to wake himself, but rouses easily to the sound of his own name

Pajamas: oversized t-shirt and soft shorts (emphasis short) for lounging, but usually strips butt-naked to sleep

Abbacchio

Sleeping: takes 90min on average to actually fall asleep, usually rests 4-6 hours a night, waking multiple times; side/stomach sleeper, doesn't roll more than a few times a night; mostly quiet, sighs a lot when he's deeply asleep; owns multiple weighted blankets; gets up just before sunrise without an alarm every day and is therefore in charge of making coffee

Pajamas: loose tank top and sweatpants

Mista

Sleeping: spends as many nights on the couch as in his own bed; snork mimimimi; dreams vividly and loves to analyze them out loud the following day; always manages to get a cool 7+ hours, even with the Pistols waking him at midnight sharp for a snack; likes a single blanket with no topsheet; wears his hat to bed; very groggy upon waking but generally cheerful in the mornings

Pajamas: socks and boxers most of the year, cartoon-patterned flannel pants in the cold months, no shirt ever

Fugo

Sleeping: keeps his bed pushed in a corner and sleeps with his back to the wall; talks in his sleep, usually muttering about something he read that day (brain won't quit); gets a solid block of 6 uninterrupted hours on most nights, and Do Not Disturb him before then if you value your life; prefers a vintage, twin bell alarm clock over a radio or buzzer

Pajamas: Ebeneezer Scrooge-ass nightshirt

Narancia

Sleeping: can and will pass out anywhere, anytime, for however long he needs (sleep schedule who?); tummy sleeper but often draws his knees under his chest and hikes his butt in the air like little kids do; so much drool; sometimes has night terrors and ends up crawling into bed with Fugo or Mista after; sleeps through alarms and has to be shaken awake more often than not

Pajamas: tee with the sleeves ripped off and gym shorts

Giorno

Sleeping: able to go lights-out as soon as he settles down; sleeps flat on his back, hands folded over his chest, still and quiet all night; has 10+ pillows and lies in them like a nest (also one stuffed frog); rolls and pins his bangs every night; wakes naturally when his room brightens because he keeps his curtains and blinds open for his plants to get sunlight

Pajamas: owns several sets of matched silk pajamas in different pastel shades

Trish

Sleeping: insists on 8 hours of beauty rest and will complain about dark circles and the risk of wrinkles if she doesn't get it; sleeps curled up, hugging a pillow; wears a sleep mask and uses a white noise machine (prefers rain sounds); also wears a mouthguard but only uses it about 50% of the time

Pajamas: either a sports bra and shorts, or whatever comfortable-looking item she's stolen borrowed from 'her boys,' fuzzy bunny slippers

[birgittesilverbae]

(Lilith + Beatrice) x Punching

(hi, adding that I hope you got some rest or will be having a restful weekend)

Beatrice ducks a punch, closes the distance between them, launches a flurry of strikes at Lilith's head. Two, three, four land before Lilith gets her gloves up in front of her face and retreats. She taps one glove on top of the other to signal a timeout, and they both pull back to the ringside.

Lilith spits out her mouthguard and eyes Beatrice up and down. "I thought we were just going to drill. Still working something out, are you?"

Beatrice flushes and dips her chin. "Sorry."

"Have the divorce papers not-"

"Shut up." Beatrice whacks at the side of Lilith's thigh. "Can you not? The last thing I want is news of that getting around the gym."

"Don't want Lucia knowing you're a married woman?"

"Lilith."

"Is that a 'no' on the filing, then?"

Beatrice sighs and sinks to the mat, forearms propped on her knees. Lilith squats beside her and raises her squeeze bottle, and Beatrice opens her mouth for a spray. She chokes inelegantly, swallows. "It's... complicated," she says finally, resolutely avoiding eye contact.

"It's really not. There's not much more for you to do than paperwork."

"That's not what I mean." Her eyes cut up towards the rafters, across to the office where Mary's just visible at her desk. She lowers her voice. "I can't morally justify it."

"Explain."

"I can't. It's not my place." A flicker of movement, Mary rising and heading their way. Beatrice rolls her weight forwards onto her toes and pops to her feet. "Just drop it, Lilith, please."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Silva."

[crissiebaby]

Million Dollar Baby: Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: This story contains diaper usage, humiliation, domination, sissification, chastity, masturbation/diaper sex, and other ABDL themes. I hope you enjoy!

Commissioned By: Gun1242

-------------------------------------------------------------

*DING! DING!*

The bell signaling an end to the second round of Matthew and Amy’s match sounded off, giving the pair of fighters a minute to recuperate. With most of the gym having gathered to watch the long-time friends duke it out, the roar of the crowd, while still relatively small, was infectious as Matthew staggered back to his corner. Having started their duel planning to go easy on his female adversary, he soon found himself locked in perhaps the fiercest fight of his career. Regardless of gender or size, Amy’s hit like a sack of bricks, made evident by the mixture of sweat and blood running down his face. 

Moreover, it was obvious to Matthew what attack Amy was aiming to land. Having watched her dedicate much of her training to mastering the Hollow Point, he had been forced to deflect multiple assaults on his lower midsection. Based on the rules implemented by the IBF, he could run the table on this fight and still lose if she managed to make him mess himself with a single hit. Unless he wanted to find out what being Amy’s slave for a week entailed, he’d have to put the kiddy gloves away from here on out.

Amy, meanwhile, wasn’t fairing a whole lot better. She had plenty of speed on Matthew, allowing her to avoid a large number of his killer punches. Although, the ones he had managed to land felt like being pelted with cannonballs, making two rounds feel like a full twelve. With the terms of their spar only permitting a three-round bout, she needed to dust herself off fast if she was going to withstand another three minutes in the ring with Matthew. She ground her teeth on the straw of her water bottle as she glared at her rival sitting in the opposing corner.

*DING! DING!*

Hoisting up the waistband of his diaper as he stood, Matthew reinserted his mouthguard as he danced with Amy to the center of the ring. “Uh oh, you’re not getting tired of me, are you?” said Matthew, remarking on the noticeably wider gait in her step, “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to read you a bedtime story after I lay your ass out.” He patted his gloves together playfully, attempting to heckle his way into Amy’s head.

Unfazed by Matthew’s schoolyard antics, Amy held her left glove out to point directly at her opponent’s head. “Shut up and box, diaper boy,” she stated smugly, savoring the hint of color that formed in Matthew’s cheeks

Unable to keep himself from scowling at being called “diaper boy,” Matthew planted his feet and threw the first punch of the round, connecting with the bulk of Amy’s glove as she moved to block his jab to the face. His second hit came shortly after, which barely grazed the top of Amy’s head as she performed a perfect duck.

Winding her fist up as she ducked, Amy was now in the prime location to deliver her signature twist on Blake The Bullet’s famous move, which she dubbed the Hollow Point’s Revenge. It was a two-point attack that would leave her extremely vulnerable if she failed but was almost guaranteed to end the match immediately if her efforts were successful. Unlike The Bullet, who used his superior strength to attack a person’s midsection head-on, Amy’s strategy was to trick someone into dodging a wild swing to the chest before sneaking her second fist in for a sucker punch to her opponent’s diaper-dumping sweet spot.

Unfortunately, if anyone was familiar with Amy’s boxing technique, it was Matthew. Dropping his fist low, he allowed himself to take a hit to the chest head-on whilst blocking Amy’s low jab. The direct impact knocked the wind clean out of him but he narrowly survived the attack on his bowels. A smirk flashed across his face as he took advantage of Amy’s vulnerable position. Right. Left. Right. Left. Over and over again until he had his rival backed against the ropes. It was brutal to watch, especially for those who were hopeful to see the gym’s alpha male get what was coming to him.

Tucking her elbows in and burying her face behind the mitts of her boxing gloves, Amy was forced to lean back against the ropes and wait for the person refereeing their match to call a knockdown. A wave of relief overtook her as she watched Matthew prance backward to the opposite corner of the ring. Bent down with a hand on her knee, she wanted to collapse right then and there, though that notion was quickly discarded once the sound of the ref counting the time she had to re-enter the match caught her ear. Stumbling to the center of the ring, she held up her gloves for the ref and looked them dead in the eyes, letting them know she was ready.

“Hey, is she wet?!” shouted someone from outside the ring, pausing the ref just as they were about to clear Amy to fight. Suddenly, all eyes fell upon Amy’s diaper, which had a very noticeable sag to it. The warm lights of the gym did a solid job masking the slightly yellow discoloration but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that her diaper had swollen since the beginning of the match.

Covering his mouth with his right glove, Matthew snickered at Amy’s humiliating predicament. He must’ve caused her bladder to slip when he had her tilted against the ropes. With his victory seemingly inevitable, this felt like the cherry on top. “Wait, she used her diaper. That means I win, right?” he asked the referee before looking to the audience for clarification.

“No, it doesn’t! There’s nothing in the rules that says a wet diaper equals a knockout!” blurted out Amy before the ref had a chance to answer. Despite her aggressive insistence in continuing the brawl, she couldn’t help but turn bright red as the amused, chuckling crowd turned on her.

Doing their best to stay impartial, the referee kept a straight face as he confirmed, “So long as a boxer’s padding isn’t leaking onto the canvas, a wet diaper doesn’t constitute a knockout.” The ref’s words squeezed a few final giggles from the small gathering of spectators as they made direct eye contact with Amy, slapped the tops of her gloves, and signaled for the match to resume.

*DING! DING!*

Matthew wasted no time closing the gap between himself and Amy as their match restarted. They were barely thirty seconds into the third round and he already had her pinned once. Two more knockdowns and this fight would be his. Leveraging his size and power against Amy’s, he quickly pushed her back toward the ropes again.

This pushed Amy into a defensive stance as she retreated in a circle around the ring, attempting never to let her diaper touch the ring’s elastic barrier. It was an exhausting way to fight that left her backpedaling constantly, but if it was tiring for her, it was certainly tiring for someone with greater body mass. Additionally, as embarrassing as it was to be called out for her little accident, the distraction it caused gained her an extra bit of rest time, boosting her mobility.

Another thirty seconds passed with seldom few punches thrown in that time. All the while, Amy could see the frustration mounting on Matthew’s face. Her strategy was working. She just needed to play it cool and wait for an opening. Her diaper squelched between her muscular thighs as she danced in a wide stance with one arm raised to block and one arm kept low and away.

“Quit moving and fight!” yelled Matthew, losing his temper at the cowardly, yet effective tactics Amy was employing. Most guys he’d fought were too vain to resort to a battle of pure footwork. Aiming to cut off Amy’s escape route, he pivoted to the side in hopes of scooting her into a corner.

Matthew’s rash decision to try and assert control over the match was exactly the kind of impatient response that Amy was banking on. Utilizing her defensive arm, she swung a check hook directly at Matthew’s head as he stepped to cut her off. His fists instinctually raised to protect his pretty face, gifting Amy with a renewed opportunity to land her devastating version of the Hollow Point to his intestinal tract.

*GUUUUUUUURRRRGLE!*

Keeling over due to Amy’s gut punch, Matthew’s eyes went wide as he felt his stomach lurch in a terribly foreboding way. He clenched his asshole tightly, forcing him to stiffen his body and flex every muscle in his core. He was only still for a split-second but his momentary freeze-up left him open for Amy to deliver a second blow to the exact same spot, sending him to the ground as he fought to keep a lid on his colon. The audience’s cheers dissipated into gasps before his shoulder collided with the ground.

“1, 2, 3…”

However, not a single onlooker was nearly as shocked as Amy was. Standing over Matthew as the referee began the knockout countdown, a crooked smile slowly formed on her face. “No…freaking…way…” she mumbled to herself, her hungry eyes honing in on her bestie's buttocks as she waited for him to cede all control to her and his quivering bowels.

“...4, 5, 6…”

With his knees curling into his chest, things were looking grim for poor Matthew. He knew if he didn’t get up soon, he would lose the match via a full-on knockout. Punching at the floor with his left fist, he moved to push himself upward. This was more than him as a man losing to a woman. He was a grown-ass adult; one who hadn’t shit himself since preschool. Lifting himself to one knee, he had precious, little time to lose.

“...7, 8, 9…”

Having only one second left to get into an upright position, Matthew ignored every warning sign that his body was giving him and promptly raised himself to a fighting stance to halt the ref’s count. A weary smile appeared on his face briefly, believing he had turned the tide against his bodily functions. Tragically, this period of peace was akin to being smack dab in the eye of a tornado.

*BLOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRT!*

The ref had no need to finish the final countdown. Matthew’s smile didn’t even have time to invert before the rear of his diaper started to inflate. The prideful boxer dropped to his knees hunched over, his mind failing to fathom what was happening to him as she stared blankly into the distance. A bashfully guilty expression overtook his crimson-coated face as he opened his mouth to speak. To his fellow boxers watching on in delightful trepidation, it looked as though he was searching for a way to explain away the shameful act he was committing but was unable to find a suitable excuse.

*DING! DING!*

Amy’s heart fluttered in correlation with the bell as it echoed the fight's conclusion. “Oh, my Goddess, I actually did it!” she said, nearly joining Matthew on the floor as her improbable victory left her feeling light-headed. To win against a guy as strong as Matthew was one thing, and certainly gave her a massive confidence boost, but to win against the guy she’d been forced to compare herself to since her fighting career began was a triumph she would carry with her for the rest of her life. Not even the lingering humiliation of her previous wetting incident could ruin this. The pièce de résistance was when she glanced into his watery eyes and watched as his male ego shattered in real-time.

Blubbering as lines of tears and snot replaced the droplets of sweat, Matthew could no longer hold back the emotions welling up inside him. It didn’t matter that this was an unsanctioned fight and that his 19 and 0 record was still intact. This was worse than a loss in his official fight history could ever be. Bursting into hysterics that were fueled by the pulpy mess swishing and churning around in his diaper, he lost all semblance of the confident and mature boxer that had stepped into the ring three rounds ago.

“Sorry, Matti,” teased Amy cruelly, justifying her actions with the knowledge that had the shoe been on the other foot, Matthew’s taunting would’ve been relentless, “Looks like we’re gonna have a whole week of fun together.” In truth, she never thought she’d make it this far, and thus hadn’t considered what she would do with Matthew if she pulled off the win. It wasn’t like he needed to know that, though, as she gleefully buried her sluggish creativity behind a condescending headpat.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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[alphajocklover]

how about a skinny 18 year old nerd who had an iq of 160 who was also a wimp and super shy. Late after school, and he had to hurry up to get the Chemistry Lab. He decided to take the shortcut through the Male Locker Room to get there quicker. But as soon as he ran it, a pair of big burly hands grabbed him, punched him the gut, and tied him up with rope.

When he came to, he was tied up in a chair, his mouth was coved with duct tape with a mouthguard inside his mouth and was surrounded by the hairiest, most manly, most self-centered, most muscled guys in the school : The football team. The football players were wearing gray tank tops & crimson basketball shorts. The football players were at least 6 feet 3 inches tall in height and is broad-shouldered and muscular in build .their faces have thick beards, .When they took off their tank tops the nerd saw they all have 6 pack abs , substantial pecs and arms& hair armpits They told him that they were going to give him a makeover that soon he will be unrecognizable that his nerdy body will be going though the changes of having a nerds body into growing & becoming a jocks body. That soon he will have a body of a jock like them. That the mouthguard in his mouth is not only collecting spit in his mouth in process of changing his high nerdy voice into a deep jock voice .they will let him keep his iq .He will be the team linebacker & tutor.

First they untied him from that chair & they move him to a bench & they tied his legs to a bar below the bench and his hands two the pegs above. Then they took off all his clothes, and threw away his "geeky" white briefs, then made him put on a jock strap and Striped Red boxers. They were so uncomfortable! The nerd saw saw a gym bag in a corner with other pairs of boxers& jockstraps& clothes such as gym shorts, tank top, sweats, a box of  XXL Magnum condoms  and a table right in front of him on that table was a football uniform, The helmet, cleats, jersey, and gear .they show the nerd the jersey with my his name. also on the table other items that will turn his nerds body into a jocks body as they began his makeover.

I hate to say this but this is basically half a story already. I’m not sure you need me for this. I hope this doesn’t come across as rude I’m just not sure what I can do with this. I think you should try writing the rest of the story yourself! I bet it’ll be great!

[valleydean]

Chapter 9 [Read Here]

HEAVYWEIGHT a deancas boxing au by valleydean (emmbrancsxx0) read from beginning | playlist | ko-fi

SUMMARY: Brooklyn, 1927. The Golden Age of Boxing. Two years ago, light heavyweight champion Dean Winchester and heavyweight champion Castiel Novak had a secret affair. After a scandal tarnished Cas’ name and stripped him of his title, the two parted ways. Now, with a heavyweight tournament on the horizon, Dean aims to up his weight class so he can compete for the title. He finds unexpected competition when Cas comes out of retirement and returns to New York to fix his reputation. Upon their reunion, the two contenders learn that, outside of the ring, some bruises never really heal.

PREVIEW:

The gym hadn’t changed at all since Castiel last stepped foot in it. All the shadowy equipment appeared the same, and the ring still loomed in the center of it all. The place still smelled of body odor, leather, and burning rubber. Perhaps the only difference was Dean’s title belt in its glass case mounted on the wall.

Dean went over to the breaker on the wall and pulled up the lever. The overhead lights hummed and flickered before the coils fully illuminated. Everything was cast in a surreal amber glow. Castiel looked at Dean, seeing his skin shimmering with the same hue, as if the golden color of his heart and soul was shining from within.

“Okay, looks like we’re alone,” Dean said, his voice echoing in the too-big, empty space. The words filled the cavern inside Castiel’s chest, rattling around inside of him and refusing to settle down. Castiel breathed in deeply, trying not to let any of it on.

He watched Dean shrug off his leather jacket and put it on the coat rack before he paced toward the iron shelves laden with equipment and accessories. Castiel hung up his own coat to keep himself busy.

“Left my usual gloves at home, but these’ll have to do,” Dean contemplated as he lifted up a pair of brown leather gloves knotted together. He draped them over his shoulder and surveyed the rest of the options before eventually grabbing a second pair. “These should fit you.” He brought them over, and Castiel peered down at their garish blue and red coloring before gently relieving them from Dean’s hands.

“Thank you.”

Dean didn’t answer. He headed toward the ring and toed off his shoes before squeezing between the ropes. Castiel followed his lead, though he took the time to crouch down and unlace his shoes properly before hoisting himself up onto the platform. By the time he was inside the ropes, Dean had already shrugged out of his casual striped button-up, leaving only the thin layer of his white undershirt. The fabric stretched over his chest and arms. Castiel tried not to make it obvious, but he kept staring at Dean out of the corner of his eye, admiring him.

Dean shoved one hand into his glove and laced it up. He slipped into the other and pulled the strings with his teeth to tighten them. They remained unknotted, and Castiel briefly considered tying them up for Dean, but then who would do the same for him? It would give Dean an unfair advantage.

Besides, the gloves were the least of his concerns. Dean hadn’t offered Castiel hand wraps, and he hadn’t put any on himself. Castiel glances around, wondering after the headgear, mouthguards, and other protection.

“Shouldn’t we be using padding?” he asked warily as he took off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his vest. He draped both garments over the ropes, and decided to keep his white shirt on and roll up the sleeves. His suspenders still dug into his shoulders.

From the other corner, Dean glanced up through his lashes, his mouth puckered. His eyes flickered pointedly down to Castiel’s bare forearms before he chuckled, “Padding. Gettin’ a little soft over there at that fancy gym of yours. Lemme guess: that egg Michael’s got you in head-to-toe gear so he doesn’t get a scratch on you?”

Castiel huffed. He pulled at the knot of his tie to loosen it before pulling over his head. “It’s for precaution,” he defended. “There’s no use getting bloody outside of a real fight.”

Dean swung his arms backward and then forward, clapping his gloves together once. His eyes came alight. “This is a real fight! Don’t you see the audience?”

Castiel squinted incredulously. The room was empty.

Dean strode forward to the center of the ring. His shout boomed off the high ceilings as he called with gusto, “Ladies and gentlemen, do we have a bout for you tonight! One that will no doubt go in the boxing history books!”

Castiel bit down on his smile, trying not to give Dean the satisfaction.

“In this corner,” Dean went on, his voice still mocking an MC. He swung his arm out toward the empty corner of the ring behind him. “Weighing in at 188 pounds, your former undefeated light heavyweight champion—and—and soon to be heavyweight champ—the King of Kings County himself, Mr. Dean Winchester!”

He put his gloved hands around his mouth and mimicked the hiss of the crowd.

Castiel made a show of rolling his eyes.

“And in this corner,” Dean said, gesturing toward Castiel, “weighing in at…” He dropped the voice momentarily: “Cas?”

“190.”

“One hundred and ninety pounds! Coming back to us from California, where he made wine for smugglers—”

It was getting more difficult to keep the grin from his expression. Castiel could feel it twinkling in his eyes as he watched Dean’s antics.

“The Angel of America! Mr. Castiel Novak!”

Dean put his hands before his mouth again, but this time he let out a series of boos.

Castiel blanched. “Dean!”

“What? It’s not me!” Dean answered brightly. “It’s the fans! Not my fault they love me. Jeez.”

They’re not the only ones, Castiel thought, unbidden, in spite of himself.

The cavern in his chest opened up again, any joy he felt suddenly tumbling into the abyss. It only lasted a moment before Dean spoke again.

“We doing this or not? C’mon. Touch gloves.” He held out his arms, waiting.

Castiel sighed heavily. He shoved his hand into one of the gloves and fumbled with the laces until they were knotted well enough. He let the laces on the second glove hang limply about his wrists while he approached Dean.

Dean’s eyes traced up and down his body in a way that might have felt very different if they weren’t so undeniably alone. Castiel slapped his gloves against Dean’s before putting them in guard.

From over the bright blue leather, Castiel watched Dean circle around him. He spun with him, keeping Dean in his line of vision as he shuffled his weight from foot to foot on the cool canvas. All the while, he looked for an opening, waiting to strike, waiting for Dean to strike. Dean only kept dancing around him.

The tips of his hair caught the golden light above. Shadows were cast on his plush lips; they cut up his sturdy jaw. There was still a dangerous kind of smirk playing on the corner of his mouth as his eyes flickered across Castiel’s face.

Castiel had enough. He sprang forward, throwing a straight punch toward that smile. Dean slipped out of the way and arced a hook into Castiel’s ribs. Castiel grunted, hearing Dean do the same when Castiel’s glove connected with his stomach in an uppercut half a second later.

Dean bobbed around him, making Castiel pivot his left foot back to switch stances. He swung his right fist into the side of Dean’s face. The blow landed—but not too hard. Castiel found himself pulling his punches. He had to. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Dean ahead of the tournament.

Still, Dean staggered slightly.

Castiel dropped his hands, concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Dean said, shaking his head to right himself. “Told you a million times: your European hooks ain’t as powerful as you think they are.”

Castiel swallowed down his laughter, even if he couldn’t quite control the grin tugging at his lips. “I’ll remind you that you said that after I knock you out.”

“Huh-huh.” Dean surprised Castiel with a jab to the eye—but it didn’t hurt as much as it should have. Maybe Dean was holding back, too.

“Keep your damn hands up,” Dean warned.

Castiel guarded his face in case Dean tried to suckerpunch him again. He stepped back, putting some space between them, transferring his weight from side to side, waiting for Dean to make a move. It was only a matter of time before Dean would try to back him against the ropes and attack on the inside, as was his usual MO.

His eyes stayed connected to Dean’s, neither of them straying, neither blinking. Castiel was aware of the sweat prickling on his brow and collecting on the small of his back, dampening his shirt. He was aware of perspiration twinkling on Dean’s face, on the blush of heat rising in Dean’s cheeks and ears, on the stilted sound of Dean’s breathing.

Dean came in for a punch. Castiel slipped out of the way and sent two quick pops to Dean’s face. By the third punch, Dean learned to anticipate it. He ducked and sent a cross into Castiel’s gut. Springing back up, he tried to swing from his back hand. Castiel reflexively slapped his glove away before it impacted—and was momentarily surprised when Dean let out a burst of laughter.

Dean distanced himself again so they could circle each other. There was a cut under his eye, swollen and angry but not oozing. He didn’t even seem to notice. He was grinning again, like a boy play-fighting in a schoolyard. When his eyes moved honey-slow up and down Castiel’s body, it was tangible. Castiel’s skin raised in response to the dragging touch. Dean licked his lips, his wet tongue catching the light, and Castiel’s throat went dry.

They were alone. They were together. For at least a little while longer.

/////

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Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in chapters or if you’d like to be taken off the list.

[octuscle]

im a skinny 18 year old nerd who is also a wimp and super shy. i'm 5 foot 7 inches tall with an iq of 160 .one afternoon i was walking across the college campus was on my way to  the Chemistry Lab when a pair of big burly hands grabbed me , punched me in the gut. When i came to ,i was tied to a bench with rope in the male locker room. my legs were tied to a bar below the bench and my hands two the pegs above. my mouth was coved with duct tape with a mouthguard inside my mouth. i look down to see all my clothes were gone i was wearing only a jock strap . i have never worn a jockstrap before it was so uncomfortable .i look to see my red star trek t-shirt , my jeans, my sneakers and socks & my "geeky" white briefs were are cut up on the floor. i look up to see that i was surrounded by the hairiest, most manly, most self-centered, most muscled guys on campus : The college football team. the football team was wearing gray tank tops & crimson basketball shorts. the football players were at least 6 feet 3 inches tall in height and is broad-shouldered and muscular in build .their faces have thick beards, .they took off their tank tops i saw they all have 6 pack abs , substantial pecs and arms They told me that each fall they capture a college freshman nerd they take him to the locker room & the jocks take that geek & they make that geek into one of their own. that this year i was that nerd & that soon i will be unrecognizable that my nerdy body will be going though the changes of having a nerds body into growing & becoming a jocks body. soon i will have a body of a jock. that the mouthguard in my mouth is not only collecting spit in my mouth in process of changing my high nerdy voice into a deep jock voice .they will let me keep my iq ill be the team linebacker & tutor. i will also tutor the cheerleaders& sorority girls who also will find me  the  object of sexual desire for most of the women on campus . i saw a gym bag in a corner with other pairs of boxers& jockstraps& clothes such as gym shorts, tank top, sweats, a box of  XXL Magnum condoms  and a table right in front of me on that table was a football uniform, The helmet, cleats, jersey, and gear .they shoe me the jersey with my last name. also on the table other items that will turn my nerds body into a jocks body items such as jock deodorant& shaving cream which change my hair less nerdy armpits into hairy jock armpits& will also cause my face to grow a thick brown beard. a protective cup which when the team put the protective cup under my jockstrap caused my dick to grow into a huge jock dick. i watch as they change my nerds body into a jock body with a genius iq. afterwards the team had practice then take my team picture with in my football uniform .after practice i changes my clothes into a gray tank tops & crimson basketball shorts same outfit as the other guys on the team for a party at a frat house at the frat house the guys on the team took off my tank top to show my jock body that i now have a 6 pack abs , substantial pecs and arms which lead the cheerleaders & sorority girls to bid on who i will lose my v card to now living my as a tall nerd jock hybrid with a genius iq who is a chem major . my jock build & broad-shouldered, alongside my wavy dark brown hair, perfectly puts me into the description of "tall, dark and handsome. As result of my good looks (and sometimes solely because of them), i am is often the object of sexual desire for most of the women on campus. the women on campus have been known to physically objectify me. i have also have model recruiters after me . i'm generally oblivious to my attractiveness

Bro, what else can I add… But I don't understand what you have with the cheerleaders and the chicks?

As far as I know, the smell of the quarterback's sweaty hair makes you horny and wild…

But anyway, the world needs more hot nerds. Have fun!

[sunlitsparks]

Chapter 2: Fistfights on Friday

First | Next

Chapter under the cut ☆

The next few days after meeting the handsome Armadillo seemed to drag on so slowly. The day they had met was a Tuesday, and they had agreed to meet up for a fair date on Saturday, but the wait felt like torture. Honey worked the next two days and they were just as slow as ever, so she passed the time by calling Mina to hear about her gig, or texting Mighty silly icebreaker questions which he always answered, much to her joy.

Are you an introvert or extrovert? Extrovert, which didn’t surprise her too much, given his direct approach to talking with her, he just has a bit of a shy side with pretty girls or boys!!

Do you prefer coffee or tea? As it turned out, he enjoyed both. Cold coffee and hot tea were his preferences.

Are you a morning person or a night owl? A morning person; he was very emphatic about this answer.

What’s your biggest fear? Losing his family.

After this question, Honey realized it had gotten kind of deep, and she was afraid to put him on the spot like that, so the questions ceased for the time being. She figured there’d be plenty more to ask him in person, so their conversations following that revolved around sending each other silly memes or gifs, and wishing each other a good day.

On Friday, Honey had another boxing match, so fortunately it passed a little faster than the two previous days. She spent the morning exercising and eating a good meal, the afternoon she arrived at the gym early to practice against a dummy, and then she took some time to rest before making her way to the ring.

Her opponent this day was an echidna with long red dreads and fiery purple eyes; she had never met this mobian before. Or any echidna, for that matter; they weren’t common in this city. Supposedly, he was a newcomer to the ring with exceptional talent, and was progressing through ranks rather quickly, landing him a match against Honey. She wasn’t champion level or anything like that, but decently ranked, being a regular competitor herself for about two years now.

“Today’s competitors! The flaming red echidna with the strength of a raging inferno, it’s the newcomer, Knuckles! Versus a veteran competitor, the cat that’s fast like lighting, clever and quick on her feet, it’s Honey!”

“Pleasure to meet you, Knuckles.” Honey gave a small bow rather than stretching out her hand for a handshake, not sure whether she could trust her opponent to not take advantage of that and get a blow in. “I heard about your fighting style, you’re quite the brute force, aren’t you?? You best bring your best!!”

The echidna gave a curt nod; he didn’t respond vocally, but the determination burning behind his eyes was enough of an answer for her. She then realized he was probably already wearing his mouthguard; slipping hers in, she gave the referee a thumbs-up, showing she was ready to go.

“Match, begin!”

Knuckles immediately began with a powerful lead hook; given his big and burly figure, she didn’t expect him to be quite so fast, and barely dodged the attack in time. She stepped towards him and threw a cross in return, but he raised his arms in defense to block the attack. Just as he began to lower his guard, though, she gave a lead undercut, landing her blow against his stomach. He let out a grunt and stumbled a bit, but quickly shook off the hit.

As I expected, Honey thought to herself, side-stepping to dodge a jab nearing her chest. That was one of my most powerful punches and he took it like it was nothing. Not to mention, I’m a decent bit shorter, so hooks are gonna be my best bet here if I wanna knock him down quickly.

The round continued at about the same pace, with Honey dodging most of his punches and Knuckles blocking most of hers. She only got in one more good punch before the bell rang, signaling the round’s end. She stepped off to drink some water, trying to quickly strategize. Ultimately, my only option is to keep dodging as much as I can and counter-attack… but I don’t know how that’s going to pan out for me. He’s almost as fast as me, and if I start getting tired and slowing down, it’s over.

“YOU GOT THIS, HONEY!”

A voice called out loudly from the crowd, and without even turning to look, she knew it was her best friend, Mina. A small prickle of guilt jabbed at her gut because she couldn’t make it to her friend’s show, and yet the mongoose was now here, cheering on her match… but Honey shook away the feeling, knowing it wasn’t her fault that work got in the way. Her friend’s cheers gave her confidence. Grinning, she put her mouthguard back in.

She made her way back to the center of the ring, looking into her opponent’s eyes. He met her gaze evenly, unwavering.

“Round 2, begin!”

This time the echidna held his stance without throwing a punch, much to Honey’s curiosity. Is he waiting on me to strike? Unwilling to stand around and waste her time, Honey quickly drew closer and threw three quick punches—jab, cross, jab. The first one landed against the echidna’s upper chest, close to his shoulder, but he guarded the next two. As Honey drew back her arm after the third punch, a massive force collided with her abdomen, sending her flying backwards a bit. 

She lost her balance and had to hold herself up again using her arms. Shit!! That was gonna cost her a point, since it was technically a knockdown, despite pulling back up almost immediately. The referee had already begun counting up to two.

The remainder of the round continued much like the first, and Honey was beginning to feel herself wearing thin. There was not much at all she could do against this opponent; when she did eventually land a better hit, a rear uppercut to his lower jaw, once again he stumbled but held his balance. She could tell he was getting tired, though. The determination in his eyes was starting to burn out a little, and his movements were slowing a little.

The bell rang once again, and Honey retreated to her corner to hydrate and rest. The worst blow she had taken was to her abdomen, so thankfully there was no bleeding in need of treatment; she just needed to take some deep breaths.

On the other hand, there was Knuckles, who she could see treating the small wound to his jaw. It wasn’t bleeding much, fortunately; she would have felt terrible if so. I’m here to have fun and let out steam and get good exercise, not to truly hurt people.

She returned her mouthguard to her mouth and returned to the center of the ring. When she gazed at Knuckles, her fur frizzed up at the expression she was met with. His expression was filled with more anger and determination than she had seen when the match began. However much she had worn him out, it seems as though it wasn’t enough.

I have to stall for time!!

“Round 3, begin!”

Honey could feel her anxiety spiking as her dodging grew more frantic than strategic; it had been quite some time since she had faced an opponent whom she couldn’t outmaneuver, let alone one with whom her tactics failed against not because they were smarter, but because they were simply too tough.

Before she could register anything else, a heavy blow collided into her chest and she flew backwards again; this time her head hit the ground, drawing all the breath and energy out of her. She struggled to lift her head up, but everything was blurry and swirling, though in all the chaos she spotted a somewhat familiar face, deep blue eyes riddled with anxiety.

“Mighty…??” she croaked out around her mouthpiece, before everything went dark.

“Honey? Honey, you gotta get up…”

“Mmmina??” Honey mumbled before she was even aware of what she was saying. Her intuition was correct, and she opened her eyes to see her best friend hovered over her unconscious body, smiling kindly.

“Yeah. The match is over. Do you need help walking out…?”

“Yeah,” Honey sighed, trying to sit up despite her aching body begging her to lie back down. Together the girls hobbled out of the arena, which had already been cleared otherwise. Much of the audience had cleared out too, in fact. “How long was I knocked out for??”

“Like, two minutes. Everyone just seemed to be clearing out rather fast. I came straight to check on you.”

Honey leaned against her friend for comfort, her breath starting to come back to her in regular intervals. “I don’t suppose I won??” she joked, knowing she didn’t even need an answer. A knockout was an immediate loss for the boxer that fell unconscious.

“Afraid not,” Mina lamented, which stung Honey’s heart anyways. “But come this way! Someone wants to talk to you,” she added on in a sing-songy tone, piquing Honey’s curiosity.

As they made their way to the entrance, Honey scanned the crowd, trying to guess whom Mina might be referring to. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized a familiar red shell; the mobian appeared to be chatting with someone, but the crowd was blocking the rest of her vision so she couldn’t tell.

“Mighty!!” Honey called excitedly, waving her arms frantically. She immediately regretted this action as her head began pounding. Nonetheless, she could feel her chest bubbling with excitement. I thought I was crazy when I saw his face in the crowd. It really was him!!

The armadillo turned towards Honey and gave a beaming smile, waving her over. Honey glanced at Mina, who nodded back at the cat with an amused expression on her face. Together they slowly made their way to the armadillo, and as they drew closer Honey could see that Mighty did in fact have a companion he was chatting with, the very echidna Honey had just lost to. Knuckles.

“Hello,” Honey mumbled to the red echidna sheepishly, avoiding eye contact. Instead she turned back to Mighty and smiled again. “What brings you here??”

“I could ask you the same,” Mighty retorted, nudging Knuckles with his elbow. “Knuckles here is one of my best pals, I had no idea you were his opponent tonight! Not that he ever tells me about his fights.”

“It does not matter who they are,” the echidna grumbled, though his gaze was fixed on Honey. Her tail twitched in discomfort. “All that matters to me is their skill in the arena. You fought well, Honey the Cat.”

Honey could feel her cheeks turning warm with embarrassment, though she felt sort of a weight lifted off her chest. Normally, opponents who bested her were egotistical jerks, but this Knuckles seemed like an alright guy. “You did too!!”

“Awww, see? You guys are cool!” Mighty announced, elbowing Knuckles again, this time more forcefully and in the gut, drawing an oomph out of his friend. Knuckles drew away from Mighty with a glare, but his red cheeks betrayed his emotions. “Truth be told, this brute is a softie and felt really bad for knocking you out cold!”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Knuckles snapped, though Honey could tell he wasn’t truly angry, just embarrassed. He turned towards the front doors, glancing over his shoulder at Mighty briefly. “It was good seeing you. But I must be going now.”

“Aww, already? Well, have a good night then!” Mighty called back softly. Knuckles waved to acknowledge him without looking back. Mighty then turned back to Honey. “I don’t think you mentioned you were a boxer.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Honey teased, though truthfully she was a little nervous to admit it. I’m not too great, and I didn’t want him to see me lose. I suppose it’s too late for that though.

A loud ahem next to Honey reminded her that Mina was still there, holding her up. “Oh!! This is Mina, my bestest friend in the whole world!!”

“We spoke briefly, but it’s good to see you in person,” Mighty replied, reaching out to shake Mina’s hand, and the mongoose graciously returned the gesture.

“Wait—I thought you said I was only out a couple minutes??” Honey looked back at Mina, puzzled.

The mongoose nodded in response. “He noticed me heading to you and asked if I was okay, I told him I was checking, and he asked me to bring you here when you woke up.”

“Ohhh.”

“Speaking of, how are you feeling?” Mighty asked, blue eyes wide with concern.

“My head is pounding a little less”, Honey answered, pulling away from Mina a little. “I think I can walk now too. I just need water and rest. And some good food!!”

“We’ll get you some grub, don’t worry,” Mina reassured. “You sure you’re good for that date tomorrow?”

“Oh, absolutely!!” Honey lashed her tail excitedly. “I’m not letting a silly headache get in the way!!”

Mighty giggled a little, making Honey’s heart flutter. He’s not just handsome, sweet, and cool. He’s cute too!! “Well, in that case, I very much look forward to meeting up with you tomorrow! I oughta be on my way home too now. My little siblings need dinner.”

“Yes, of course,” Honey answered. Mighty had told her more about that little sister of his, Matilda, as well as his younger brother Ray. His family clearly meant a huge deal to him, and from the sound of it there weren’t really any parental figures in the picture. “I’ll see you tomorrow!!”

The two waved goodbye and together Honey and Mina walked towards the subway station, the yellow cat skipping with every other step.

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[orcboxer]

i've never gotten in a fight before, what's it like to get punched in earnest?

It depends! How hard the punch is and where the punch lands are the main factors. Also, everyone is built different, so my experience won't be quite the same as someone else's, but if you're curious here's mine:

If you got your guard up and take a hit to your arms, it stings but it ain't bad at all really. Same for anything padded with muscle like the chest or thigh or back. Like unless it hits the funny bone or some other weird nerve, it's just whatever imo.

Getting punched in the solar plexus can hurt like hell and knock the wind outta you, but if you keep your abdominals tensed it really reduces the damage of the blow, and makes a lot of body shots feel like nothin. Still gotta be careful about it though, obviously, a punch to the gut is way better than a punch to the solar plexus, but yeah. Surprisingly I've never had a broken rib but I expect that would hurt like hell too so just keep your guard up and stay mobile and hopefully you just never have to worry bout it lmao.

A punch to the face is complicated. The nose and temple are the worst, in my experience, the pain being immediate and sharp. The nose is sensitive and bleeds a lot, it's annoying.

When I've been punched in the cheek, jaw, or eye (which obviously fucks up yer vision), the pain wasn't immediate, it took a few seconds, by which point the adrenaline kicked in. The first punch to the face typically stuns you, there's a moment of shock especially if you weren't expecting it, and for me it was surprisingly less painful than I expected, which I'm sure hasn't been everyone's experience, but you'll definitely be feelin it the next morning regardless.

Your mouth is filled with sharp rocks (teeth) so the first place you start bleeding is typically in there (wear a mouthguard), but when I'm wearing a mouthguard I don't even notice it until after the fight. With fighting as with sex, always always use protection. Not just mouthguard but hand-wraps too, you do not wanna fight with unwrapped fists, you'll fuck up your hands so fast and it'll suck.

If you get punched at the right force and angle, you might start "seeing stars" which is where these little flecks of golden light drift around your vision like dust motes -- this indicates your brain got jostled. For me the headache hits in waves radiating from within, and like, the best way I can describe it is a "cold" pain, as opposed to the "hot" pain you get with like a cut on your skin.

Everyone is a little different in terms of how the adrenaline hits em. For me it's like this. Your brain is switching over to fight mode, where words don't exist, just movement. All communication sounds muffled, complex sentences are just noise, time feels like water, and you are bursting with energy. It's exhilarating, and for some folks, like me, it makes minor pain from punches somehow feel great, kinda feels like stretching out your muscles after a long car ride, it's hard to explain, but the function of that is that it makes it easier to shrug off blows and move confidently, which is important cuz bein afraid of gettin hit can be a huge hindrance.

The final factor is context. And this is a surprisingly important one. If we're talkin boxing or mma or just fighting with friends for fun, it's great and it hurts less. Especially with friends, they ain't gonna want to seriously injure you so overall it's just exhilarating and fun. I'll come out of a friendly match covered in bruises and glowing. But a serious fight, with hard feelings or actual danger, sucks, it hurts more and can be traumatic, so, as much as I love to pick fights, consent is everything.

I do genuinely recommend boxing or whatever other martial art really appeals to you, if that's ever somethin you're interested in. Not every gym is gonna be right for you, and some fights are gonna turn south unexpectedly, but for me the hobby itself has been really empowering (not counting these pandemic years, since I can't fight anyone) and, weirdly, it gives me gender euphoria lol. It ain't for everyone but I love it.

[ambersports]

What's the best boxing gear?

Unleash Your Potential: A Guide to the Best Boxing Gear with Amber Sports

Introduction:

Boxing is not just a sport; it's a discipline that demands dedication, skill, and the right gear to unleash your true potential in the ring. Whether you're a seasoned pro or just starting your boxing journey, having the right equipment is crucial. One brand that stands out in the world of sporting goods is Amber Sports. In this blog, we'll explore the essential boxing gear and shine a spotlight on why Amber Sports is a top choice for enthusiasts.

Boxing Gloves:

The foundation of any boxer's gear arsenal is a pair of high-quality gloves. Amber Sports offers a diverse range of boxing gloves, catering to various preferences and needs. From sparring gloves to heavy bag gloves, their products are crafted with precision and durability, providing the necessary support and protection for your hands during training sessions and bouts.

Protective Gear:

Safety is paramount in boxing, and protective gear is non-negotiable. Amber Sports excels in providing headgear, mouthguards, and hand wraps that meet the highest safety standards. Their commitment to quality ensures that you can focus on your performance without compromising on protection.

Training Equipment:

To hone your skills, you need the right training equipment. Amber Sports offers a wide array of equipment such as heavy bags, speed bags, and focus mitts. These tools not only improve your technique but also contribute to building strength and endurance. Investing in top-notch training equipment from Amber Sports is an investment in your boxing journey.

Apparel:

Looking and feeling good in the ring can boost your confidence. Amber Sports offers a stylish and comfortable range of boxing apparel, including shorts, shirts, and shoes. Their designs strike a balance between functionality and fashion, ensuring that you not only perform at your best but also do so in style.

Accessories:

Little details can make a big difference. Amber Sports understands this and provides a variety of accessories like gym bags, water bottles, and hand wraps. These accessories enhance your overall boxing experience, making it more convenient and enjoyable.

Why Choose Amber Sports?

Quality Assurance: Amber Sports is known for its commitment to quality. Their products undergo rigorous testing to ensure durability and performance.

Variety and Options: Whether you're a beginner or a professional, Amber Sports caters to all skill levels with a diverse range of products.

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Trusted Reputation: Amber Sports has built a solid reputation in the sporting goods industry, earning the trust of athletes worldwide.

Conclusion:

In the world of boxing, your gear can make or break your performance. Amber Sports emerges as a reliable and top-notch choice for enthusiasts at every level. By investing in their gear, you're not just buying equipment; you're investing in your journey towards becoming a better boxer. So, gear up with Amber Sports and step into the ring with confidence!